And if I should live to be
The last leaf upon the tree
In the spring,-

Let them smile, as I do now
At the old forsaken bough

Where I cling.

OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

LABOUR.

LABOUR is rest-from the sorrows that greet us;
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,

Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill. Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow, Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labour is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life current leaping; How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping, Free as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labour is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth, Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth, From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth,

• Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, tho' shame, sin, and anguish are round thee; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee; Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee,

Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod! Work-for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labour !—all labour is noble and holy ;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

Pause not to dream of the future before us;
Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;
Hark how Creation's deep, musical chorus,
Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing,
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labour is worship!"-the robin is singing,
"Labour is worship!"-the wild bee is ringing,
Listen! that eloquent whisper up-springing,

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft breathing flower; From the small insect the rich coral bower,

Only man in the plan shrinks from his part.

Labour is life!-'tis the still water faileth ;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth :

X

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth !

Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labour is glory!-the flying cloud lightens ;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens ;

Play the sweet keys would'st thou keep them in
tune!

FRANCIS SARGENT OSGOOD.

MAN.

[This beautiful poem, from a MS. of very old date, has been attributed to Sir John Davies;-it would seem, however, without any positive authority.]

LIKE as the damask rose you see,
Or like the blossom on a tree
Or like the dainty flower in May,
Or like the morning to the day,
Or like the sun, or like the shade,
Or like the gourd which Jonas had,
Even such is man, whose thread is spun,
Drawn out and cut and so is done-

The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,—
The flower fades, the morning hasteth,-
The sun sets, the shadow flies,-

The gourd consumes-and man, he dies.

Like to the grass that's newly sprung,
Or like a tale that's new begun,
Or like the bird that's here to-day,
Or like the pearléd dew of May,
Or like an hour, or like a span,
Or like the singing of a swan;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here,-now there,-in life and death.

The grass withers, the tale is ended,-
The bird is flown, the dew's ascended,-
The hour is short, the span not long,—
The swan's near death,-man's life is done.

Like to the bubble in the brook,

Or in a glass much like a look,

Or like the shuttle in a weaver's hand,
Or like the writing on the sand,

Or like a thought, or like a dream,
Or like the gliding of a stream;
Even such is man, who lives by breath,
Is here, now there,-in life and death!
The bubble's out, the look's forgot,-
The shuttle's flung, the writing's blot,—
The thought is past, the dream is gone,-
The waters glide,-man's life is done.

Like to an arrow from the bow,
Or like swift course of water-flow,
Or like that time 'twix flood and ebb,
Or like the spider's tender web,

Or like a race, or like a goal,

Or like the dealing of a dole,
Even such is man, whose brittle state,
Ís always subject unto fate:

The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent,—
The time no time, the web soon rent,—
The race soon run, the goal soon won,-
The dole soon dealt,-man's life soon done.

Like to the lightning from the sky,
Or like a post that quick doth hie,
Or like a quaver in a song,
Or like a journey three days long,
Or like the snow when summer's come,
Or like the pear, or like the plum;
Even such is man, who heaps up sorrow,
Lives but this day, and dies-to-morrow.

The lightning's past, the post must go,-
The song is short, the journey so,-
The pear doth rot, the plum doth fall,-
The snow dissolves,—and so must all.

HAMLET'S INSTRUCTIONS TO THE
PLAYERS.

SPEAK the speech, I pray you, as I pronounced it to you, trippingly on the tongue. But if you mouth it, as many of our players do, I had as lief the town-crier