How blessed for the meadow itself, let the stream and its value be great or small! Labour is life: from the inmost heart of the worker rises his God-given force; the sacred celestial Life-Essence breathed into him by Almighty God, from his inmost heart awakens him to all nobleness, to all knowledge,-" Self-knowledge," and much else, so soon as work fitly begins. Knowledge? The knowledge that will hold good in working, cleave thou to that; for Nature herself accredits that, says Yea to that. Properly, thou hast no other knowledge but what thou hast got by working: the rest is yet all a hypothesis of knowledge; a thing to be argued of in schools,-a thing floating in the clouds, in endless logic vortices, till we we try, and fix it. "Doubt, of whatever kind, can be

ended by action alone."

T. CARLYLE.

THE OLD SEXTON.

SAD seem'd the strong grey-headed man,
Of lagging thought and careful heed;
He shaped his life by rule and plan,
And hoarded all beyond his need.

One daughter, little Jane, had he-
The silent sexton's only child;

And when she laugh'd aloud and free,
The grave old sexton smiled.

For she within his heart had crept,
Himself he could not tell you why,
But often he had almost wept,
Because he heard her cry.

All else to him appear'd as dead,
Awaiting but the shroud and pall;
It seem'd that to himself he said,
"I soon shall dig the graves of all.”

And beast, and home, and man, and wife,
He saw with cold, accustom'd eye;
Jane only look'd so full of life
As if that she could never die.

And when she still could hardly walk
By holding fast his wrinkled finger,
So well he loved her prattling talk,
He often from his work would linger.

Around her waist in sports he tied
The coffin-ropes for leading strings,
And on his spade she learnt to ride,
And handled all his churchyard things.

One day upon a baby's grave

His morning's work must Simon spend, And Jane her seat by him must have,

And all his well-known task attend.

Soon, 'mid the herbage soft and green
The little place of rest was made,
Whence daisy-cover'd meads were seen,
And where the hawthorn cast a shade.

Old Simon, almost resting now,
With slacken'd stroke his labour plied,
And raising oft his moisten'd brow,
With longer looks his darling eyed.

Then Jane cried out in sudden glee,-
"Oh, what a pretty grave is there!
It would be just a bed for me,

With room enough, and none to spare."

The father's hand let fall the spade,
His cheek grew pale, he heaved a groan ;-
And when the children's graves he made,
Thenceforth-he always work'd alone.

JOHN STERLING.

THE POOR MAN'S RICHES.

POOR! did you call me?

My wants are but few,

And generous Nature

Gives more than my due;

The air and the sunshine,
Fresh water and health,
And beart to enjoy them—
All these are my wealth.

No close-handed miser,

That e'er had a hoard,

Could reckon such treasure

As I can afford:

The wood in its verdure,
The stream in its flow,
Are mine in their beauty
Wherever I go.

My wealth is substantial,
Although in the mart
I cannot convey it,
In whole or in part;
Yet, if I enjoy it,
What signifies more?
I'm lord of the ocean;
I'm king of the shore.

Wealth could procure me
But pleasure and ease:
I've both in my garden
Beneath the green trees;
I've both in my cottage,
My fancies to feed;

I've both in my conscience

What more do I need?

The joys that delight me
Are free as my thought;
They're common as sunshine-
They cannot be bought.
I've servants and minstrels,

And boundless domains;

I've rivers and mountains,
And forests and plains.

The robin's my minstrel,
My friend, and my ward;
The lark is my poet,
The thrush is my bard.
No great prima donna,
The pride of her hour,
Can yield me more music
Than birds in the bower.

The rich and the mighty
Have chaplains in pay:
And I, too, have chaplains
As pious as they—
Who preach to my spirit
As with them I bend
To God the Creator,
My Father and Friend.

In whispering foliage
They soothe and persuade ;
They sing in the sunlight,
They talk in the shade: