Work, work, my boy, and murmur not,
The fustian garb betrays no shame;
The grime of forge-soot leaves no blot,
And labour gilds the meanest name.

There's duty for all those, my son,
Who act their earthly part aright;
The spider's home-threads must be spun,
The bee sucks on 'twixt flowers and light.

The hungry bird his food must seek,
The ant must pile his winter fare;
The seed drops not into the beak;
The store is only gain'd by care.

The wind disturbs the sleeping lake,
And bids it ripple pure and fresh ;
It moves the green boughs till they make
Grand music in their leafy mesh.

And so the active breath of life

Should stir our dull and sluggard wills,

For are we not created rife

With health that stagnant torpor kills?

I doubt if he who lolls his head

Where Idleness and Plenty meet,

Enjoys his pillow or his bread,

As those who earn the meals they eat.

And man is never half so blest

As when the busy day is spent,
So as to make his evening rest
A holiday of glad content.

God grant thee but a due reward,

A guerdon portion fair and just ;

And then ne'er think thy station hard,
But work, my boy, work, hope, and trust!

ELIZA COOK, 1818—

THE RIVER.

INFANT of the weeping hills,

Nursling of the springs and rills,
Growing River, flowing ever,

Wimpling, dimpling, staying never,—

Lisping, gurgling, ever going,

Lipping, slipping, ever flowing,
Toying round the polish'd stone,
Kiss the sedge and journey on.
Here's a creek where bubbles come,
Whirling make your ball of foam.
There's a nook so deep and cool,
Sleep into a glassy pool.

Breaking, gushing,
Downward rushing,

Narrowing green against the bank,
Where the alders grow in rank,—
Thence recoiling,

Outward boiling,

Fret, in rough shingly shallows wide,
Your difficult way to yonder side.
Thence away, aye away,
Bickering down the sunny day,
In the sea, in yonder west,
Lose yourself, and be at rest.

Thus from darkness weeping out, Flows our infant Life away, Murmuring now the checks about, Singing now in onward play;

Deepening, whirling,

Darkly swirling

Downward suck'd in eddying cover,

Boiling with tumultuous loves;
Widening o'er the worldly sands;
Kissing full the cultured lands;
Dim with trouble, glory lit,
Heaven still bending over it;
Changing still, yet ever going,
Onward, downward ever flowing.

Oh to be a boy once more, Curly-headed, sitting singing 'Midst a thousand flowrets springing, In the sunny days of yore,

In the sunny world remote,

With feelings opening in their dew,

And fairy wonders ever new,

And all the budding growths of thought! Oh, to be a boy, yet be

From all my early follies free!

But were I skill'd in prudent lore,
The boy were then a boy no more.

Short our threescore years and ten,
Yet who would live them o'er again?
All life's good, ere they be flown,
We have felt, and we have known.
More than mortal were our fear,
If doom'd to dwell for ever here.

Yet, oh, from age to age, that we Might rise a day old earth to see! Mountains, high with nodding firs, O'er you the clouded crystal stirs, Fresh as of old, how fresh and sweet! And here the flowerets at my feet. Daisy, daisy, wet with dew,

And all ye little bells of blue,

I know you all; thee, clover bloom,
Thee the fern, and thee the broom:
And still the leaves and breezes mingle
With twinklings in the forest dingle.
Oh, through all wildering worlds I'd know
My own dear place of long ago.
Pleased would the yearning spirit then
The doings learn of living men,

I

The rise and fall of realms and kings,
And, oh, a thousand homely things.
Deeper our care considerate

To know of earth's diviner state :

How speeds the Church, with horns of light,
To push and pierce the Heathen night?
What promise of the coming day
When Sin and Pain shall pass away,
And, under Love's perpetual prime,

Joy light the waving wings of Time.

THOMAS AIRD, 1802—

LIFE'S MUTATIONS.

As waves the grass upon the fields to-day, That soon the wasting scythe shall sweep away; As smiles the floweret in the morning dew, That eve's chill blast in blighted death may strew, Thus in brief glory spring the sons of clay, Thus bloom a while, then wither and decay.

I saw an infant in its robe of white,
The admiring mother's ever dear delight;

It clapp'd its hands when tones of mirth went by,
And nature's gladness glisten'd in its eye.
Again I came—an empty crib was there,
A narrow coffin, and a funeral prayer.