LOWLY PLEASURES.

METHINKS I love all common things:
The common air, the common flower;
The dear kind common thought that springs
From hearts that have no other dower,
No other wealth, no other power,
Save love; and will not that repay
For all else fortune tears away?

Methinks I love the horny hand

That labours until dusk from dawn; Methinks I love the russet band, Beyond the band of silk or lawn; And oh the lovely laughter drawn From peasant lips, when sunny May Leads in some flowery holiday!

What good are fancies fair that rack
With painful thought the poet's brain?

Alas! they cannot bear us back

Unto happy years again!

But the white rose without stain

Bringeth times and thoughts of flowers,
When youth was bounteous as the hours!

E'en now, were I but rich, my hand
Should open like a vernal cloud,
When't casts its beauty on a land

In music sweet but never loud:

But I am of the humble crowd;
And thus am I content to be,

If thou, sweet muse, wilt cherish me.

B. W. PROCTER, 1790—

MUTATION.-A SONNET.

THEY talk of short-lived Pleasure-be it so-
Pain dies as quickly! stern, hard-featured Pain
Expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.

The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
And after dreams of horror, comes again
The welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,

Makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease:
Remorse is virtue's root; its fair increase

Are fruits of innocence and blessedness:

Thus Joy o'erborne and bound, doth still release
His young limbs from the chains that round him

press.

Weep not that the world changes-did it keep

A stable changeless state, 'twere cause indeed to weep. W. C. BRYANT, 1798

-American.

WORK.

WHAT are we set on earth for? Say, to toil-
Nor seek to leave thy tending of the vines,
For all the heat o' the day, till it declines,
And Death's mild curfew shall from work assoil.
God did anoint thee with this odorous oil,
To wrestle, not to reign; and He assigns
All thy tears over, like pure crystallines,
For younger fellow-workers of the soil
To wear for amulets.-So others shall

Take patience, labour, to their heart and hand
From thy hand, and thy heart, and thy brave cheer,
And God's grace fructify through thee to all.
The least flower, with a brimming cup may stand,
And share its dew-drop with another near.

E. B. BROWNING, 1809-1862.

LIFE AND DEATH.

I CALL'D two spirits from before God's throne: "What wilt thou give me, Life?" I ask'd of one, Whose presence seem'd half-shadow and half-sun.

"I'll give thee hours of joy, bright hours, glowing With the hot sun of love, sweet hours, flowing

Calmly away in holy unity,

With little children praying at thy knee,
And thy beloved blessing them and thee!
And hours of sorrow-sorrow for the loss
Of friends and kindred, or the heavier cross
Of children snatch'd in all their infant charms
From the frail haven of a mother's arms;

Or thy beloved's heart may change and grieve thee,
Or, like the rest, he, too, may die and leave thee.”

So spake that angel: to the other turning,
Above whose misty form a star was burning,

"What wilt thou give me, Death?" I falter'd, mourning.

"My gifts depend upon thyself: if thou
Use well the hours Life is bestowing now,
I proffer thee eternity for time;

For earthly courts, God's palaces sublime;
For wither'd buds, crowns of immortal flowers;
For fading leaflets, amaranthine bowers!
And I will give thee more. Within my gate
The lost and loved shall for thy presence wait;

"The parents of thy youth-the friends for whom
Thy tears have vainly fallen-all shall come!
And a bright band of cherubs, robed in white,-

On each fair head a coronal of light,

Shall greet thee, happy mother, safely grown

In angel purity, around God's throne.

And thy beloved shall wander at thy side,

There where no heart can change, Death can no more

divide."

And as the Spirit spake, the star of light
Above his head grew gloriously bright;
And I beheld a countenance divine,
Full of compassion, awful, yet benign!
Then did the angels vanish, and with tears
I pray'd that I might so employ the years

That Life should give, that with my parting breath
I might reclaim the promises of Death.

-Good Words, 1860.

C. S. J.

SONG OF THE HAYMAKERS.

THE noontide is hot and our foreheads are brown ; Our palms are all shining and hard;

Right close is our work with the wain and the fork, And but poor is our daily reward.

But there's joy in the sunshine, and mirth in the lark That skims whistling away over head;

Our spirits are light, though our skins may be dark, And there's peace with our meal of brown bread.

We dwell in the meadows, we toil on the sward,
Far away from the city's dull gloom;
And more jolly are we, though in rags we may be,
Than the pale faces over the loom.