And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, As well as the weary hand.

When the weather is warm and bright;

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet,

With the sky above my head

And the grass beneath my feet;

For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel

Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh! for but one short hour, A respite, however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,

But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart;
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread!"

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat in unwomanly rags
Plying her needle and thread
Stitch! stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,
Would that its song could reach the rich!
She sang this "Song of the Shirt."

T. Hood

CLXXVIII.

LOOK ALOFT.

IN the tempest of life, when the waves and the gale Are around and above, if thy footing should fail, If thine eye should grow dim, and thy caution depart, Look aloft," and be firm, and be fearless of heart.

If thy friend, who embraced in prosperity's glow,
With a smile for each joy, and a tear for each woe
Should betray thee when sorrows like clouds are arrayed,
"Look aloft" to the friendship which never shall fade.

Should the visions which hope spreads in light to the eye
Like the tints of the rainbow, but brighten to fly,
Then turn, and, through tears of repentant regret,
"Look aloft " to the sun that is never to set.

the son of thy heart,

The wife of thy bosom, - in sorrow depart,

"Look aloft," from the darkness and dust of the tomb, To that soil where affection is ever to bloom.

And, oh! when Death comes in his terror to cast
His fears on the future, his pall on the past,

In that moment of darkness, with hope in thy heart,
And a smile in thine eye, "look aloft," and depart.

J. Lawrence.

CLXXIX.

PRESS ON.

PRESS on! there's no such word as fail!

Press nobly on! the goal is near,

Ascend the mountain! breast the gale!

Look upward, onward,

Why should'st thou faint?

never fear!

Heaven smiles above,

Though storm and vapor intervene ;
That sun shines on, whose name is Love,
Serenely o'er Life's shadowed scene.

Press on surmount the rocky steeps,
Climb boldly o'er the torrent's arch;
He fails alone who feebly creeps ;

He wins who dares the hero's march.
Be thou a hero! let thy might
Tramp on eternal snows its way,
And, through the ebon walls of night
Hew down a passage unto day.

Press on if once and twice thy feet
Slip back and stumble, harder try;
From him who never dreads to meet
Danger and death, they 're sure to fly.
To coward ranks the bullet speeds,
While on their breasts, who never quail,
Gleams, guardian of chivalric deeds,
Bright courage, like a coat of mail.

Press on! if Fortune play thee false
To-day, to-morrow she'll be true;
Whom now she sinks, she now exalts,
Taking old gifts, and granting new

The wisdom of the present hour
Makes up for follies past and gone,

To weakness strength succeeds, and power

From frailty springs,

press on! press on!

Press bravely on! and reach the goal,

And gain the prize, and wear the crown;

Faint not! for to the steadfast soul

Come wealth, and honor, and renown. To thine own self be true, and keep

Thy mind from sloth, thy heart from soil; Press on! and thou shalt surely reap

A heavenly harvest for thy toil.

P. Benjamin.

THE

CLXXX.

KINDNESS.

HE blessings which the weak and poor can scatter
Have their own season. 'Tis a little thing

To give a cup of water; yet its draught
Of cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,
May give a shock of pleasure to the frame
More exquisite than when nectarean juice
Renews the life of joy in happiest hours.
It is a little thing to speak a phrase
Of common comfort which by daily use
Has almost lost its sense; yet on the ear
Of him who thought to die unmourned 't will fall
Like choicest music; fill the glazing eye
With gentle tears; relax the knotted hand
To know the bonds of fellowship again;
And shed on the departing soul a sense
More precious than the benison of friends
About the honored death-bed of the rich,
To him who else were lonely, that another
Of the great family is near and feels.

Sergeant Talfourd.

You come back from sea

And not know my John?

I might as well have asked some landsman

Yonder down in the town.

There's not an ass in all the parish

But he knows my John.