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Hope springs eternal in the human breast:
Man never is, but always to be blest :
The soul, uneasy and confined from home,
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.

Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind
Sees God in clouds, or hears him in the wind;
His soul proud science never taught to stray
Far as the solar walk or milky way;

Yet simple Nature to his hope has given,
Behind the cloud-topped hill, a humbler heaven;
Some safer world in depths of woods embraced,
Some happier island in the watery waste,

Where slaves once more their native land behold;
No fiends torment, no Christians thirst for gold.
To Be, contents his natural desire;

He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire;

But thinks, admitted to that equal sky,
His faithful dog shall bear him company.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.-Hood.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the "Song of the Shirt!"

"Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!
And work! work! work!

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,

Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work! work! work!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work! work! work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!

Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread, ́
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

"But why do I talk of Death?
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh, God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work! work! work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread—and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor

A table-a broken chair

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there!

"Work! work! work!

From weary chime to chime,
Work! work! work!

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work! work! work!

In the dull December light;

And work! work! work!

When the weather is warm and bright-
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show their sunny backs,
And twit me with the spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this " Song of the Shirt!"

TRY AGAIN. E. Cook.

KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think;

"Tis true he was a monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed,
To make his people glad,

He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed,
And so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair,

As grieved as man could be;

And after a while as he pondered there,

"I'll give it all up," said he.

Now just at the moment a spider dropped,

With its silken cobweb clue,

And the King in the midst of his thinking stopped,
To see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,
And it hung by a rope so fine,
That how it would get to its cobweb homę,
King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl

Straight up with strong endeavour,

But down it came, with a slipping sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran; not a second it stayed,
To utter the least complaint,

Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,
A little dizzy and faint,

Its head grew steady-again it went,
And travelled a half-yard higher.
'Twas a delicate thread it had to tread,
And a road where its feet would tire.

Again it fell and swung below,

But again it quickly mounted,

Till up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.

"Sure," cried the King, "that foolish thing Will strive no more to climb,

When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."

But

up the insect went once more,—

Ah me, 'tis an anxious minute,

He's only a foot from his cobweb door,

Oh, say, will he lose or win it!

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,

Higher and higher he got,

And a bold little run at the very last pinch,
Put him into his native cot.

"Bravo, bravo!" the King cried out,
"All honour to those who try!
The spider up there, defied despair,
He conquered, and why shouldn't I?"

And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more, as he tried before,
And that time did not fail.

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