Nothing but leaves; memory weaves As we retrace our weary way, And shall we meet the Master so, The Saviour looks for perfect fruit,— THE VILLAGE SCHOOLMASTER.-GOLDSMITH. BESIDE yon straggling fence that skirts the way, * He found nothing thereon but leaves.-Matt. chap. xxi. v. 19. Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage, And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, Where many a time he triumphed is forgot. KEEP IT BEFORE THE PEOPLE.-DUGANNE. KEEP it before the people! That Earth was made for Man! That flowers were strown, And fruits were grown, To bless, and never to ban That sun and rain, And corn and grain, Are yours and mine, my brother! Free gifts from heaven, And freely given To one as well as another! Keep it before the people! That man is the image of God! His limbs or soul Ye may not control With shackle or shame or rod! We may not be sold For silver or gold, Neither you nor I, my brother! By God, from heaven, To one as well as another! And the heavy night hung dark The hills and waters o'er, When a band of exiles moored their bark Not as the conqueror comes, They, the true-hearted, came; Not with the roll of the stirring drums, Not as the flying come, In silence and in fear; They shook the depth of the desert's gloom Amid the storm they sang, And the stars heard, and the sea; And the sounding aisles of the dim woods rang To the anthem of the free. The ocean eagle soared From his nest by the white wave's foam, And the rocking pines of the forest roared: This was their welcome home. There were men with hoary hair Why have they come to wither there, There was woman's fearless eye, Lit by her deep love's truth; There was manhood's brow, serenely high, What sought they thus, afar? Bright jewels of the mine? The wealth of seas, the spoils of war? Ay, call it holy ground, The soil where first they trod! They have left unstained what there they found Freedom to worship God! "Labor is worship! -the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!"-the wild bee is ringing: Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing 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. Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth; Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth; Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune! Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, |