Ay, that's the day can tell who slept
With sunlight on his eyes;

But we have leap'd ere day has swept
The ravellings from the skies.
Then as ye weave,

And time the stave,
This axiom keep in sight-

The little done

With Monday's sun

Is much on Friday night.

And life is but a gingham chain ;

Why o'er it should we grieve,
Though stripes and checks of joy and pain
We now and then must weave?
'Twill one day end, and this we know,

The Great Employer's love
Can every thread that's dark below
Make rainbow bright above.

Then with the threads

Of darkest shades

Should this life be perplex'd?

No, onward drive,

And nobly strive,

For fairer in the next!

Oh! for that day when every cloth

Shall in the light be tried,

And justice given alike to both

Employer and employ'd.

Oh! for ye then, ye drones of trade,
Who crush the struggling poor;
For every fraud ye 'll well be paid
With interest full as sure!

But mind the scobes

For ladies' robes

Must faultless be as flowers,

Nor crack nor cloud

Can be allow'd

In dainty work like ours!

And now when youth and strength are rife,
Let's so each hour employ,
That ere the Friday eve of life,
Our "pushing" may be by;.
And so to wait our warehouse fate
Without being much afraid
Of bringing "bail" to shame or hate
By any work we've made.

Then while ye weave,

And time the stave,

See all goes fair and well;

For what's amiss,

Depend on this.

That warehouse day will tell.

H. DAVIS, 1847.

THE COMMON LOT.

ONCE in the flight of ages past,

There lived a man,—and who was he?
Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,
That man resembled thee.

Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown: His name has perish'd from the earth; This truth survives alone :

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,
Alternate triumph'd in his breast;
His bliss and woe,- —a smile, a tear!-
Oblivion hides the rest.

The bounding pulse, the languid limb,
The changing spirit's rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

He suffer'd, but his pangs are o'er;
Enjoy'd, but his delights are fled;
Had friends,

And foes,

his friends are now no more; his foes are dead.

He loved, but whom he loved, the grave
Hath lost in its unconscious womb :
Oh, she was fair!—but naught could save
Her beauty from the tomb.

He saw whatever thou hast seen;
Encounter'd all that troubles thee:
He was whatever thou hast been;
He is what thou shalt be.

The rolling seasons, day and night,

Sun, moon, and stars, the earth and main, Erewhile his portion, life and light

To him exist in vain.

The clouds and sunbeams, o'er his eye
That once their shades and glory threw,
Have left on yonder silent sky

No vestige where they flew.

The annals of the human race,
Their ruins, since the world began,

Of him afford no other trace
Than this,-THERE LIVED A MAN!

JAMES MONTGOMERY, 1771-1854.

SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

MARK that swift arrow, how it cuts the air,
How it outruns thy following eye!
Use all persuasions now, and try

If thou canst call it back, or stay it there.
it went, but thou shalt find

That way

No track is left behind.

Fool! 'tis thy life, and the fond archer thou,

Of all the time thou'st shot away,

I'll bid thee fetch but yesterday,

And it shall be too hard a task to do.

Besides repentance, what canst find
That it hath left behind?

Our life is carried with too strong a tide,
A doubtful cloud our substance bears,
And is the horse of all our years;

Each day doth on a wingèd whirlwind ride.
We and our glass run out, and must
Both render up our dust.

But his past life who without grief can see,
Who ever thinks his end too near,

But says to Fame. Thou art mine heir;
That man extends life's natural brevity—
This is, this is the only way

To outlive Nestor in a day.

ABRAHAM COWLEY, 1618-1667.