its fancy for hot bread, which it would be much better without. The result of the strike, probably, will be, besides relief to the bakers themselves, which has already been in part conceded, a more wholesome kind of bread, such as will keep fresh and palatable through the day-and cleaner baking; for the wretchedness of the trade has made it vile and filthy, as is the case in other trades besides that of the bakers. Many an article of mere luxury, many a senseless toy, if our eyes could be opened, would be seen to bear the traces of human blood and tears. We are like the merchant brothers in Keats:

"With her two brothers this fair lady dwelt,
Enriched from ancestral merchandise;
And for them many a weary hand did swelt
In torch-lit mines and noisy factories,
And many once proud-quivered loins did melt
In blood from stinging whip; with hollow eyes
Many all day in dazzling river stood,

To take the rich-ored driftings of the flood.

For them the Ceylon diver held his breath,
And went all naked to the hungry shark;

For them his ears gushed blood; for them in death
The seal on the cold ice with piteous bark
Lay pierced with darts; for them alone did seethe
A thousand men in troubles wide and dark:
Half-ignorant, they turned an easy wheel
That set sharp racks at work, to pinch and peel.'
Contributed to the "Canadian Monthly Magazine.”

"THE DAY IS DONE."

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882).

"With no great range of imagination, these lines have been justly admired for their delicacy of expression. Some of the images are very effective. Nothing can be better than

'the bards sublime

Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time.'

The idea of the last quatrain is also very effective."-E. A. POE, Essays.]

The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of night,

* Keats' Isabella, xiv., xv.

As a feather is wafted downward
From an eagle in his flight.

I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me, That my soul cannot resist;

A feeling of sadness and longing,
That is not akin to pain,
And resembles sorrow only

As the mist resembles the rain.

Come, read to me some poem,
Some simple and heartfelt lay,
That shall soothe this restless feeling,
And banish the thoughts of day.

Not from the grand old masters,
Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo
Through the corridors of Time;

For, like strains of martial music,
Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavor,-
And to-night I long for rest.

Read from some humbler poet,
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,
Or tears from the eyelids start;

Who, through long days of labor,
And nights devoid of ease,
Still heard in his soul the music
Of wonderful melodies.

Such songs have power to quiet
The restless pulse of care,

And come like the benediction
That follows after prayer.

Then read from the treasured volume
The poem of thy choice,

And lend to the rhyme of the poet
The beauty of thy voice.

And the night shall be filled with music,
And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs,
And as silently steal away.

OLD AGE.

EDMUND WALLER (1605-1687).

The seas are quiet when the winds give o’er;
So, calm are we when passions are no more:
For then we know how vain it was to boast
Of fleeting things, too certain to be lost.
Clouds of affection from our younger eyes
Conceal that emptiness which age descries.

The soul's dark cottage, battered and decayed,
Lets in new light through chinks that time has made;
Stronger by weakness, wiser men become,

As they draw near to their eternal home;

Leaving the old, both worlds at once they view
That stand upon the threshold of the new.

FLOWERS WITHOUT FRUIT.

JOHN HENRY (CARDINAL) NEWMAN, D.D. (b. 1801).

Prune thou thy words, the thoughts control
That o'er thee swell and throng;

They will condense within thy soul,

And change to purpose strong.

But he who lets his feelings run

In soft, luxurious flow,

Shrinks when hard service must be done,

And faints at every woe.

Faith's meanest deed more favor bears,
Where hearts and wills are weighed,
Than brightest transports, choicest prayers,
Which bloom their hour and fade.

[This poem first appeared in 1847 accompanied by The Sphinx, The Rhodora, and The Problem: the four poems were not displaced in popularity by any of Emerson's later efforts. As published in 1847, The Humble Bee started off with the rather feeble line-Fine humble bee! fine humble bee!" Indeed much of the poem has been broken up and recast with evident advantage to the artistic form.

"In poetry, Emerson is as impatient of the laws and verbal harmony as in discussion of the processes of logic; and if his essential ideas are made to appear, so as not to seem altogether obscure to himself, he cares little whether they move to any music which was not made for them."-R. W. GRISWOLD.]

Burly, dozing humble bee,

Where thou art is clime for me;
Let them sail for Porto Rique,*
Far-off heats through seas to seek,
I will follow thee alone,
Thou animated torrid-zone!
Zig-zag steerer, desert cheerer,

Let me chase thy waving lines:
Keep me nearer, me thy hearer,
Singing over shrubs and vines.

Insect lover of the sun,
Joy of thy dominion!

*Porto Rico, one of the Spanish West India Islands. The climate,

though hot, is salubrious.

*

Sailor of the atmosphere,

Swimmer through the waves of air!
Voyager of light and noon,
Epicurean* of June!

Wait, I prithee, till I come
Within earshot of thy hum,—
All without is martyrdom.

When the south wind, in May days,

With a net of shining haze

Silvers the horizon wall;

And, with softness touching all,

Tints the human countenance

With a color of romance;

And, infusing subtle heats,
Turns the sod to violets;
Thou, in sunny solitudes,
Rover of the underwoods,
The green silence dost displace
With thy mellow, breezy bass.

Hot midsummer's petted crone,
Sweet to me thy drowsy tone
Tells of countless sunny hours,
Long days, and solid banks of flowers;
Of gulfs of sweetness without bound
In Indian wildernesses found;

Of Syrian peace, immortal leisure,
Firmest cheer, and bird-like pleasure.

Aught unsavory or unclean

Hath my insect never seen;

But violets and bilberry bells,

Maple-sap and daffodils,

Grass with green flag half-mast high,
Succory to match the sky,
Columbine with horn of honey,
Scented fern, and agrimony,
Clover, catchfly, adder's-tongue,
And brier-roses, dwelt among;
All beside was unknown waste,
All was picture as he passed.

Wiser far than human seer,
Yellow-breasted philosopher!

"Pleasure-seeker." Here to be read Epicu'rean; but the true pronunciation is Epicurean (Greek, epikoureios). Epicurus, the Greek philosopher, lived B.C. 342-270.