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NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.

BY C. F. ORNE.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,

And strike the sounding blow, Where from the burning iron's breast

The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring,

And fire's intenser glow-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,

Whose hard hands guide the plough, Who bend beneath the summer sun,

With burning cheek and brow-
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth

From olden time till now-
But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labour all day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye who plough the sea's blue field,

Who ride the restless wave, Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel

There lies a yawning grave,
Around whose bark the wintry winds

Like fiends of fury rave-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labour long hours through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheeks

The hectic glow is bright,
Whose mental toil wears out the day

And half the weary night;
Who labour for the souls of men,

Champions of truth and right-
Although ye

feel
your

toil is hard,
Even with this glorious view,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

Ho! all who labour, all who strive,

Ye wield a lofty power ;
Do with your might, do with your strength,

Fill every golden hour !
The glorious privilege to do,

Is man's most noble dower.
Oh! to your birthright and yourselves,

To your own souls, be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs,

Who have no work to do.

WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ?

BY DOANE.

What is that, mother ?

The Lark, my child, The morn has just looked out, and smiled, When he starts from his humble, grassy nest, And is

up

and away with the dew on his breast

And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere,
To warble it out in his Maker's ear.
Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays
Tuned, like the lark’s, to thy Maker's praise.
What is that, mother-

The Dove, my son, –
And that low, sweet voice, like the widow's moan,
Is flowing out from her gentle breast,
Constant and pure, by that lonely nest,
As the wave is poured from some crystal urn,
For her distant dear one's quick return.
Ever, my son, be thou like the dove,-
In friendship as faithful, as constant in love.
What is that, mother ?-

The Eagle, boy,
Proudly careering his course of joy,
Firm, in his own mountain vigour relying,
Breasting the dark storm, the red bolt defying ;
His wing on the wind, and his eye on the sun,
He swerves not a hair, but bears onward, right on.
Boy, may the eagle's flight ever be thine,
Onward and upward, true to the line.
What is that, mother?

The Swan, my love, —
He is floating down from his native grove,
No loved one now, no nestling nigh;
He is floating down by himself to die.
Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings,
Yet the sweetest song is the last he sings.
Live so, my love, that when death shall come,
Swan-like and sweet it may waft thee home.

THE SAILOR'S MOTHER.

BY WORDSWORTH.

ONE morning (raw it was and wet,
A foggy day in winter time)
A woman on the road I met,
Not old, though something past her prime;

Majestic in her person, tall and straight;
And like a Roman matron’s was her mien and gait.

The ancient spirit is not dead ;
Old times, thought I, are breathing there ;
Proud was I that my country bred
Such strength, a dignity so fair :

She begged an alms, like one in poor estate,
I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate.

When from these lofty thoughts I woke,
“What is it,” said I,“ that you bear,
Beneath the covert of your cloak,
Protected from this cold damp air ?"

She answered, soon as she the question heard, “A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing-bird.”

And, thus continuing, she said,
“I had a son, who many a day
Sailed on the seas, but he is dead ;
In Denmark he was cast away :

And I have travelled weary miles to see
If aught which he had owned might still remain for me.

The bird and cage they both were his :
'Twas my son's bird ; and neat and trim
He kept it: many voyages
This singing-bird had gone with him ;

When last he sailed, he left the bird behind ;
From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind.

He to a fellow-lodger's care
Had left it, to be watched and fed,
And pipe its song in safety ;- there
I found it when my son was dead ;

And now, God help me for my little wit !
I bear it with me, Sir ;-- he took so much delight in it."

THE DYING GLADIATOR.

BY BYRON.

I SEE before me the gladiator lie ;
He leans upon his hand,-his manly brow
Consents to death, but conquers agony,
And his drooped head sinks gradually low;
And through his side the last drops, ebbing slow
From the red gash, fall heavy, one by one,
Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now

The arena swims around him—he is gone,
Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch

who won.

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He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes
Were with his heart, and that was far away ;
He recked not of the life he lost nor prize,
But where his rude hut by the Danube lay,
There were his young barbarians all at play,
There was their Dacian mother-he, their sire,
Butchered to make a Roman holiday.

All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire,
And unavenged ? — Arise ! ye Goths, and glut your ire !

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