And if I should live to be Let them smile, as I do now Where I cling. OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES. LABOUR. LABOUR is rest-from the sorrows that greet 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; Never the ocean-wave falters in flowing, "Labour is worship!"-the robin is singing, 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 ; X Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth ! Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon. Play the sweet keys would'st thou keep them in 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, The rose withers, the blossom blasteth,— The gourd consumes-and man, he dies. Like to the grass that's newly sprung, The grass withers, the tale is ended,- 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 a thought, or like a dream, Like to an arrow from the bow, Or like a race, or like a goal, Or like the dealing of a dole, The arrow's shot, the flood soon spent,— Like to the lightning from the sky, The lightning's past, the post must go,- HAMLET'S INSTRUCTIONS TO THE 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 |