And he shakes his feeble head, That it seems as if he said,"They are gone."
The mossy marbles rest
On the lips that he has prest
In their bloom,
And the names he loved to hear
Have been carved for many a year
On the tomb.
My grand-mamma has said,-
Poor old lady, she is dead
That he had a Roman nose,
And his cheek was like a rose
But now his nose is thin,
And it rests upon his chin
And a crook is in his back,
And a melancholy crack
In his laugh.
I know it is a sin
For to me to sit and grin
At him here;
But the old three-corner'd hat,
And the breeches, and all that,
And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,-
Let them smile, as I do now
At the old forsaken bough
Where I cling.
LABOUR 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-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow,
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!
Labour is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life current leaping ;
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
Free as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labour is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth,
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, tho' 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;
Labour !—all labour is noble and holy;
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.
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.
"Labour is worship!"-the robin is singing,
"Labour is worship!"—the wild bee is ringing,
Listen! that eloquent whisper up-springing,
Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower, From the small inşect the rich coral bower,
Only man in the plan shrinks from his part.
Labour is life!'t is 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.
Labour is glory!—the flying cloud 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!
FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.
[This beautiful poem, from a MS. of very old date, has been attributed to Sir John Davies.-It would seem, however, without any positive authority.]
LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on a tree,
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut, and so is done—
The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,—
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,-
The sun sets, the shadow flies,-
The gourd consumes-and man, he dies.
Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearléd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there,--in life and death.
The grass withers, the tale is ended,-
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,-
The hour is short, the span not long,-
The swan's near death,-man's life is done.
Like to the bubble in the brook,
Or in a glass much like a look,
Or like the shuttle in weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,
Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of the stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there,-in life and death!
The bubble's out, the look's forgot,-
The shuttle's flung, the writings blot.-
The thought is past, the dream is gone,-
The waters glide,-man's life is done.
Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,
Or like that time 'twixt flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,
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