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How many, darker, cower out of sight,

And burrow, blind and silent, like the mole.

And like the mole, too, with its busy feet

That dig and dig a never-ending cave,

Our hidden sins gnaw through the soul, and meet And feast upon each other in its grave.

Frances Sargent Osgood

LABORARE EST ORARE.

Pause not to dream of the future

before us; Pause not to weep the wild cares

that come o'er us; Hark, how Creation's deep, musical

chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;

Never the little seed stops in its growing;

More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!"—the robin is singing;

"Labor is worship!" —the wild bee is ringing;

Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspringing. Speaks to thy soul from out Na tare's great heart.

From the dark cloud flows the life giving shower;

From the rough sod blows the softbreathing flower;

From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man shrinks, in the plan, from his part.

Labor is life!—'Tis the still water faileth;

Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth! Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.

Labor is glory! — the flying en lightens;

Only the waving wing changes and

brightens; Idle hearts only the dark future

frightens; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou

keep them in tune!

Labor is rest,— from the sorrows that greet us;

Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,

Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us. Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.

Work,—and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;

Work, — thou shall ride over Care's coming billow:

Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health, — lo! the husbandman reaping,

How through his veins goes the lifecurrent leaping!

How his strong arm in his stalwart pride sweeping, True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.

Labor is wealth, — in the sea the

pearl growethen rich the queen's robe from the frail

cocoon floweth; From the fine acorn the strong forest

bloweth;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee!

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee! Rest not content in thy darkness, — a clod!

Work — for some good, be it ever so slowly;

Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly:

Labor ! — all labor is noble and holy:

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

Kate Putn

BEFORE THE PRIME.

You think you love me, Marguerite,
Because you find Love's fancy sweet;
So, zealously, you seek a sign
To prove your heart is wholly mine.

Ah, were it so! But listen, dear!
Bethink you how, this very year,
With fond impatience you were fain
To watch the earth grow green again;

When April's violets, here and there,
Surprised the unexpectant air.
You searched them out, and brought
me some,

To show, you said, that spring was come.

But, sweetheart, when the lavish May Rained flowers and fragrance round

your way. You had no thought her bloom to

bring,

To prove the presence of the spring!

Believe me, when Love's April-time
Shall ripen to its perfect prime,
You will not need a sign to know
What every glance and breath will
show!

DRIVING HOME THE COWS.

Out of the clover and blue-eyed grass He turned them into the river lane;

One after another he let them pass, Then fastened the meadow-bars again.

\.m Osgood.

Under the willows, and over the hill, He patiently followed their sober pace;

The merry whistle for once was still, And something shadowed the sunny face.

Only a boy! and his father had said He never could let his youngest go:

Two already were lying dead, Under the feet of the trampling foe.

But after the evening work was done, And the frogs were loud in the meadow-swamp, Over his shoulder he slung his gun. And stealthily followed the footpath damp.

Across the clover, and through the wheat,

With resolute heart and purpose grim.

Though cold was the dew on his hurrying feet, [him. And the blind bat's flitting startled

Thrice since then had the lanes been white,

And the orchards sweet with applebloom;

And now, when the cows came back at night.

The feeble father drove them home.

For news had come to the lonely farm

That three were lying where two had lain;

And the old man's tremulous, palsied arm

Could never lean on a son's again.

The summer day grew cool and late,
He went for the cows when the
work w as done;
But down the lane, as he opened the
gate,

He saw them coming one by one, —

Brindle, Ebony, Speckle, and Bess, Shaking their horns in the evening wind;

Cropping the buttercups out of the grass, — hind?

But who was it following close beLoosely swung in the idle air

The empty sleeve of army blue;

And worn and pale, from the crisping hair.

Looked out a face that the father knew.

For southern prisons will sometimes yawn.

And yield their dead unto life again;

And the day that comes with a cloudy dawn

In golden glory at last may wane.

The great tears sprang to their meet-
ing eyes;
For the heart must speak when the
lips are dumb:
And under the silent evening skies
Together they followed the cattle
home.

ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY.

SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER.

I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed I toiled alone:

My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone:

I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street;

And it seemed his toil was great and hard, while mine was great and sweet.

I said. "O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a worker too,
The heart nigh fails me many a day, but how is it with you?
For while I toil, great tears of joy will sometimes fill my eyes,
And when I form my perfect work, it lives and never dies.

"I carve the marble of pure thought until the thought takes form,
Until it gleams before my soul and makes the world grow warm;
Until there comes the glorious voice and words that seem divine.
And the music reaches all men's hearts and draws them into mine.

"And yet for days it seems my heart shall blossom never more,

And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore:

Therefore. O hewer of the stones that pave base human ways.

How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days?"

Then he replied: "Ere sunrise, when the pale lips of the day
Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray,
A great thought rose within me. how, while men asleep had lain,
The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again.

"The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, —
A great appalling sun. to light my soul the long day through.
I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began
With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man.

"I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men,

The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen, —

The restless spoilers after good, who sow and never reap.

And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep.

"Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my undaunted eyes
Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise
At sight of all those labors, and because that every one,
Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone.

"They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways,
Together we began to-day as on the other days:
I felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the days wore through,
Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too.

"Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily
The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily,
That while they nobly held it as each man can do and bear,
It did not wholly fall my side as though no men were there.

"And so we toil together many a day from morn till night,

I in the lower depths of life, they on the lovely height;

For though the common stones are mine, and they have lofty cares,

Their work begins where this leaves off, and mine is part of theirs.

"And't is not wholly mine or theirs, I think of through the day,
But the great, eternal thing we make together, I and they'
re in the sunset I behold a city that man owns,
Made fair with all their nobler toil, built of my common stones.

"Then noonward, as the task grows light with all the labor done,
The single thought of all the day becomes a joyous one;
For, rising in my heart at last where it has lain so long,
It thrills up seeking for a voice, and grows almost a song.

"But when the evening comes, indeed, the words have taken wing,
The thought sings in me still, but I am all too tired to sing:
Therefore, O you my friend, who serve the world with minstrelsy,
Among our fellow-workers' songs make that one song for me.

Rebecca S. Palfrey.

WHITE UNDERNEATH.

Into a city street,

Narrow and noisome, chance had led my feet;

Poisonous to every sense; and the

sun's rays Loved not the unclean place.

It seemed that no pure thing
Its whiteness here would ever dare to
bring;

Yet even into this dark place and
low,

God had sent down his snow.

Here,too, a little child,
stood by the drift, now blackened
and defiled; [play,
And with his rosy hands, in earnest
scraped the dark crust away.

( hecking my hurried pace,
To watch the busy hands and earnest
face, [ light,

I heard him laugh aloud in pure deThat underneath, 't was white.

Then, through a broken pane, A woman's voice summoned him in again,

With softened mother-tones, that half

excused The unclean words she used.

And as I lingered near. His baby accents fell upon my ear: "See, I can make the snow again for you,

All clean and white and new!"

Ah! surely God knows best. Our sight is short: faith trusts to Him the rest.

Sometimes, we know, He gives to human hands To work out His commands.

Perhaps He holds apart.

By baby fingers in that mother's heart,

One fair, clean spot that yet may

spread and grow, Till all be white as snow.

Theodore Parker.

THE WAY, THE TRUTH AND THE LIFE.

O THOU, great Friend to all the sons of men,

Who once appeared in humblest guise below, Sin to rebuke, to break the captive's chain,

And call Thy brethren forth from want and woe, — We look to thee! Thy truth is still the Light

which guides the nations, groping on their way, Stumbling and falling in disastrous night,

Yet hoping ever for the perfect day.

Yes; Thou art still the Life, Thou art the way

The holiest known; Light, Life,

the Way of heaven! And they who dearest hope and

deepest pray Toil by the Light, Life, Way,

which Thou hast given.

THE HIGHER GOOD.

Father, I will not ask for wealth or fame,

Though once they would have

joyed my carnal sense; I shudder not to bear a hated name, Wanting all wealth, myself my sole defence.

But give me, Lord, eyes to behold the truth;

A seeing sense that knows the eternal right;

A heart with pity filled, and gentlest ruth;

A manly faith that makes all darkness light. [kind; Give me the power to labor for manMake me the mouth of such as cannot speak:

Eyes let me be to groping men, and blind; [weak A conscience to the base; and to the

Let me be hands and feet; and to the foolish, mind:

And lead still further on such as Thy kingdom seek.

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