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Ever prompting,-ever seeing
Some improvement yet to plan;
To uplift our fellow-being,

And, like man, to feel for Man!

What is noble? Is the saber
Nobler than the humble spade?
There's a dignity in labor,

Truer than e'er pomp arrayed!
He who seeks the Mind's improvement,
Aids the world, in aiding Mind;
Every great commanding movement
Serves not one,--but all mankind.

O'er the Forge's heat and ashes,
O'er the Engine's iron head,
Where the rapid shuttle flashes,
And the spindle whirls its thread,
There is Labor lowly tending

Each requirement of the hour;
There is Genius still extending
Science and its world of power!

Mid the dust, and speed, and clamor
Of the loom-shed and the mill;
Midst the clink of wheel and hammer,
Great results are growing still!
Though, too oft, by Fashion's creatures,
Work and workers may be blamed,
Commerce need not hide its features!

Industry is not ashamed.

What is noble? That which places
Truth in its enfranchised will;
Leaving steps, like angel traces,
That mankind may follow still!
E'en though Scorn's malignant glances
Prove him poorest of his clan,
He's the Noble who advances

Freedom and the Cause of Man!

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Beautiful, lovely,

She was but given,
A fair bud to earth,

To blossom in heaven.


SHE prays for her boy at eve and dawn-
The mother prays for the dear one gone;
He has wandered so wide and far away

From the sunny haunts where he used to play,
From the home where he roamed in childish joy,
He has gone-yet the mother prays for her boy!

She prays for her boy-Oh! I think to-day,
How many a message wings its way
With the love of an angel pure and deep,
From the mother's heart that cannot sleep!

As the bird moans o'er its forsaken nest,
I fancy that grief broods in her breast;

I fancy to-day that all her joy

Is to kneel to her God and pray for her boy!

Oh! a mother's love-what fount like this
Is gushing in earth's wide wilderness!
Tho' from its bright wealth we rove afar,
To follow the beaming of many a star,
Weary and faint on life's desert track,
The heart to that pure wellspring goes back,
For those waters sweet it oft will yearn,
And sigh, "Oh! days of my youth return!"

She prays for her boy-I see her now,
With the shadow of care upon her brow;
The weary months and years that have sped
Have twined in her tresses the silver thread;
I fancy she turns from the world's loud glee,
And says,
"Alas! it is not for me!"
I can think how she stands in the place of graves,

And thinks of the loved o'er the ocean waves.


She prays for her boy-oh! lonely heart
Be strong in the strife to do thy part,

And know that such blessings around thee shed,
Must be like incense upon thy head.
The mantle of her affection warm,

That would shield thee from the pitiless storm,
May be softly folded around thee there,
By the God who hears thy mother's prayer.

She prays for her boy-and thus it will be,
Till her bark goes down Death's tideless sea;
But an echo will linger, yes, even then,
And seek him out in the haunts of men;

It will whisper low of Heaven's wide joy,

Saying, there thy mother yet prays for her boy!


GUSTY and raw was the morning,

A fog hung over the seas,
And its gray skirts, rolling inland,

Were torn by the mountain trees;
No sound was heard but the dashing
Of waves on the sandy bar,
When Pablo of San Diego

Rode down to the Paso del Mar.

The pescador, out in his shallop,
Gathering his harvest so wide,
Sees the dim bulk of the headland

Loom over the waste of the tide;
He sees, like a white thread, the pathway
Wind round on the terrible wall,

Where the faint, moving speck of the rider
Seems hovering close to its fall!

Stout Pablo of San Diego

Rode down from the hills behind;
With the bells on his gray mule tinkling,
He sang through the fog and wind.


Under his thick, misted eyebrows,
Twinkled his eye like a star,
And fiercer he sang, as the sea-winds
Drove cold on Paso del Mar.

Now Bernal, the herdsman of Corral,
Had traveled the shore since dawn,
Leaving the ranches behind him—

Good reason he had to be gone!
The blood was still red on his dagger,
The fury was hot in his brain,

And the chill, driving scud of the breakers
Beat thick on his forehead in vain.

With his blanket wrapped gloomily round him,
He mounted the dizzying road,

And the chasms and steeps of the headland
Were slippery and wet, as he trode;
Wild swept the wind of the ocean,
Rolling the fog from afar,

When near him a mule bell came tinkling,
Midway on the Paso del Mar!

"Back!" shouted Bernal full fiercely,

And "Back!" shouted Pablo, in wrath; As his mule halted, startled and shrinking, On the perilous line of the path!

The roar of devouring surges

Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; And "Back, or you perish!” cried Bernal, "I turn not on Paso del Mar!"

The gray mule stood firm as the headland
He clutched at the jingling rein,
When Pablo rose up in his saddle,

And smote till he dropped it again,
A wild oath of passion swore Bernal,
And brandished his dagger, still red,
While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward,
And fought o'er his trusty mule's head.

They fought, till the black wall below them
Shone red through the misty blast;
Stout Pablo then struck, leaning further,
The broad breast of Bernal at last.

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