Nor be angry, though another
Scorn to call thee friend or brother:
"Brother," say, "let's be forgiving—
Live in love; 'tis pleasant living."

SONNET.-(Wordsworth.)

The world is too much with us; late and soon,
Getting and spending, we lay waste our powers;
Little we see in nature that is ours;

We have given our hearts away, a sordid boon!
This sea, that bares her bosom to the moon ;
The winds, that will be howling at all hours,
And are up-gathered now, like sleeping flowers;
For this, for everything, we are out of tune;

It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A pagan, suckled in a creed outworn,

So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn ; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.

A SUMMER INVOCATION.-(W. C. Bennett.)

O gentle, gentle summer rain,
Let not the silver lily pine,
The drooping lily pine in vain

To feel that dewy touch of thine,
To drink thy freshness once again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

In heat the landscape quivering lies;
The cattle pant beneath the tree;
Through parching air and purple skies,
The earth looks up in vain for thee

For thee, for thee, it looks in vain,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

Come thou, and brim the meadow streams,
And soften all the hills with mist;
O falling dew, from burning dreams,

By thee shall herb and flower be kissed;
And earth shall bless thee yet again,
O gentle, gentle summer rain.

LABOUR.-(Lord Houghton.)

Heart of the people! Working men!
Marrow and nerve of human powers;
Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming Time this world of ours; Hold by that title,-which proclaims,

That ye are undismayed and strong, Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.

Yet not on ye alone depend

These offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end

Is lord and master of us all.
The highborn youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound,

While industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.

With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now, And shouts and winds his horn, as ye Might whistle by the loom or plough; In vain for him has wealth the use

Of warm repose and careless joy,—

When, as ye labour to produce,
He strives, as active to destroy.
But who is this with wasted frame,
Sad sin of vigour overwrought?
What toil can this new victim claim ?
Pleasure for pleasure's sake besought.
How men would mock her flaunting shows,
Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those
Who have no better work to do.

And he who still and silent sits

In closed room or shady rock,
And seems to nurse his idle wits
With folded arins or open book :-
To things now working in that mind,
Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that Hope has ne'er defined
Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
Thus all must work—with head or hand,
For self or others, good or ill;
Life is ordained to bear, like land,
Some fruit, be fallow as it will:
Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed,
And all our choice is this,-to grow
Pasture and grain or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts,
Unenvious of each other's lot,-
For those which seem the easiest parts
Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,
Who from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest

And an increase of good for man.

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
(Thomas Campbell.)

A chieftain to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound
To row us o'er the ferry."

"Now who be ye would cross Loch-Gyle,
This dark and stormy water?"
Oh, I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this Lord Ullin's daughter.
"And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather;
"His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover,
Then who would cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
"I'll go, my chief-I'm ready:
It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady :

And, by my word! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;

So, though the waves are raging white,
I'll row you o'er the ferry.'

By this the storm grew loud apace,
The water-wraith was shrieking;
And, in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armèd men,
Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather,
I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."

The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed, amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:

Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore
His wrath was changed to wailing—

For sore dismayed, through storm and shade,
His child he did discover!

One lovely arm was stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,
"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief—
My daughter!-oh! my daughter!"

'Twas vain the loud waves lashed the shore,
Return or aid preventing :

The waters wild went o'er his child—
And he was left lamenting.

A HYMN. (Thompson.)

These, as they change, Almighty Father, these
Are but the varied God. The rolling year
Is full of Thee. Forth in the pleasing Spring
Thy beauty walks, Thy tenderness and love.