Oh, the mocking chime of the old church bell! The white face shall haunt thee! The bells they shall taunt thee! Echoed and tossed on the withering breath Of a curse that shall cling round thy soul till death. a THE WEAVER. WEAVER sat by the side of his loom He upward turned his eye to heaven, Till the last, last cord from his heart was riven, Then he threw it about his shoulders bowed, And about his grizzled head, And gathering close the folds of his shroud, And after, I saw, in a robe of light, The angels' wings were not more bright, And a thread that would last till the hour of And I saw mid the folds all the Was added at every cast. His warp had been by the angels spun, And his weft was bright and new, Like threads which the morning upraids from the sun, All jeweled over with dew. And fresh-lipped, bright-eyed, beautiful flowers And blithe to the weaver sped onward the hours, But something there came slow stealing by, And I saw that the shuttle less blithely did fly; And the thread that next o'er the warp was lain And anon I marked there a tear-drop's stain But still the weaver kept weaving on, Though the fabric all was gray; And the flowers, and the buds, and the leaves were gone, And the gold threads cankered lay. And dark, and still darker, and darker grew And some were of a death mocking hue, And things all strange were woven in, Sighs, down-crushed hopes and fears, And the web was broken, and poor and thin, And the weaver fain would have flung it aside, So in light and in gloom the shuttle he plied, And as he wove, and weeping still wove, A tempter stole him nigh; And with glowing words he to win him strove, iris-hued flowers And wherever a tear had fallen down And jewels befitting a monarch's crown And wherever had swept the breath of a sigh And with light from the fountain of bliss in the sky And then I prayed: "When my last work is done, Be the stain of sorrow the deepest one THE PRESENT CONDITION OF MAN VIN. EAVEN from all creatures hides the book of fate, know, Or who could suffer being here below? Hope humbly, then, with trembling pinions soar; Lo the poor Indian, whose untutored mind Sees God in clouds, and hears him in the wind; His soul proud science never taught to stray Far as the solar walk, or milky way; Yet simple nature to his hope has given, Behind the cloud-topped hill, a humbler heaven; Some safer world in depth of woods embraced, Some happier island in the watery waste, Where slaves once more their native land behold, He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire: ALEXANDER POPE. THE BRIDGE. STOOD on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour; A flood of thoughts came o'er me, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, And gazed on that wave and sky! In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight, I had wished that the ebbing tide O'er the ocean wild and wide! And the burthen laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear; It is buried in the sea, On its bridge with wooden piers, As long as the river flows, W THE POLISH BOY. HENCE come those shrieks so wild and shrill With the sharp cadence of despair? Again they come, as if a heart Were cleft in twain by one quick blow, And every string had voice apart To utter its peculiar woe. Whence came they? from yon temple where Now forms the warrior's marble bed The dim funeral tapers throw What hand is that, whose icy press Clings to the dead with death's own grasp, But meets no answering caress? No thrilling fingers seek its clasp? It is the hand of her whose cry With pallid lip and stony brow The gate is burst; a ruffian band Rush in and savagely demand, With brutal voice and oath profane, The startled boy for exile's chain. The mother sprang with gesture wild, And to her bosom clasped her child; Then with pale cheek and flashing eye Shouted with fearful energy, "Back, ruffians, back, nor dare to tread Too near the body of my dead; Nor touch the living boy-I stand Between him and your lawless band. Take me, and bind these arms, these hands, With Russia's heaviest iron bands, To perish, if 'twill save my child!" Peace, woman, peace!" the leader cried, "One moment!" shrieked the mother, "one ! Take these!" and her white arms and hands But the brave child is roused at length, Of his young spirit fierce and bold. His curling lips and crimson cheeks This hour has made the boy a man! I wept upon a marble brow, Yes, wept! I was a child, but now My noble mother on her knee Hath done the work of years for me!" He drew aside his broidered vest, And there, like slumbering serpent's crest, "Ha! start ye back! Fool! coward! knave! Up, mother, up! Look on thy son! -Great God, I thank Thee! Mother, I Rejoice with thee-and thus-to die!" One long, deep breath, and his pale head Lay on his mother's bosom-dead. ANN S. STEPHENS LABOR AND REFORM. WORK. WEET wind, fair wind, where have you been? "I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky; I've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by ; I've been laughing at work while others sigh; For men must work, and women must weep, Three wives sat up in the lighthouse tower, And they trimmed the lamps as the sun went down, They looked at the squall, and they looked at the shower, And the night rack came rolling up ragged and brown! But men must work, and women must weep, Let those laugh who Though storms be sudden, and waters deep, win!" Sweet rain, soft rain, what are Three corpses lay out on the shining sands you doing? "I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells; I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells; I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells; Is that worth pursuing?" Redbreast, redbreast, what have you done? "I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; By and by I shall teach them to fly, Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you going? A secret worth the knowing!" Each content with the work to be done, Shall you and I be taught to work By the bee and the bird, that scorn to shirk? Wind and rain fulfilling His word! THE THREE FISHERS. HREE fishers went sailing out into the West, And the children stood watching them out of the In the morning gleam as the tide went down, And good by to the bar and its moaning. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT. ITH fingers weary and worn, W With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt; And still with a voice of dolorous pitch She sang the "Song of the Shirt!" Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's O! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! Work-work-work Till the brain begins to swim! Work-work-work Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Seam, and gusset, and band, Band, and gusset, and seamTill over the buttons I fall asleep, And sew them on in a dream! O, men, with sisters dear! O, men, with mothers and wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt— Sewing at once, with a double thread, A shroud as well as a shirt! But why do I talk of death- Because of the fasts I keep; O God! that bread should be so dear, And flesh and blood so cheap! Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank my shadow I thank Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime! Work-work-work- As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band Till the heart is sick and the brain benumbed. As well as the weary hand. Work-work-work In the dull December light! And work-work-work, When the weather is warm and bright!— While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling, As if to show me their sunny backs, Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweetWith the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet! To feel as I used to feel, Oh! but for one short hour A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for love or hope, A little weeping would ease my heart; My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread! With fingers weary and worn, And eyelids heavy and red, 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. "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. |