Work on and win:

Life without work is unenjoy'd;

The happiest are the best employ'd !—
Work moves and moulds the mightiest birth,
And grasps the destinies of earth!
Work on!

Work sows the seed;

Even the rock may yield its flower,-
No lot so hard, but human power,
Exerted to one end and aim,

May conquer fate, and capture fame!
Press on!

Press onward still;

In nature's centre lives the fire

That slow, though sure, doth yet aspire;
Through fathoms deep of mould and clay,
It splits the rocks that bar its way!
Press on!

If nature then

Lay tame beneath her weight of earth, When would her hidden fire know birth? Thus Man, through granite Fate, must find The path, the upward path,-of Mind! Work on!

Pause not in fear;

Preach no desponding, servile view,-
Whate'er thou will'st thy WILL may do!
Strengthen each manly nerve to bend
Truth's bow, and bid its shaft ascend!
Toil on!

Be firm of heart;

By fusion of unnumber'd years
A continent its vastness rears!

A drop, 'tis said, through flint will wear;
Toil on, and nature's conquest share!
Toil on!

Within thyself

Bright morn, and noon, and night succeed,Power, feeling, passion, thought, and deed; Harmonious beauty prompts thy breast,Things angels love, and God hath blest! Work on!

Work on and win!

Shall light from nature's depths arise,
And thou, whose mind can grasp the skies,
Sit down with Fate, and idly rail ?—
No!-onward! Let the Truth prevail !

Work on!

CHARLES SWAIN, 1803—

A BEGGAR THROUGH THE WORLD

AM I.

A BEGGAR through the world am I,—
From place to place I wander by.
Fill up my pilgrim's scrip for me,
For Christ's sweet sake and charity!
A little of thy steadfastness,
Rounded with leafy gracefulness,

Old oak, give me,—

That the world's blasts may round me blow, And I yield gently to and fro,

While

my stout-hearted trunk below And firm-set roots unmovèd be.

Some of thy stern, unyielding might,

Enduring still through day and night

Rude tempest-shock and withering blight,— That I may keep at bay

The changeful April sky of chance,

And the strong tide of circumstance,

Give me, old granite gray.

Some of thy mournfulness serene,

Some of thy never-dying green,

Put in this scrip of mine,

That griefs may fall like snow-flakes light,

And deck me in a robe of white,

Ready to be an angel bright,

O sweetly-mournful pine.

A little of thy merriment,
Of thy sparkling, light content,
Give me, my cheerful brook,—
That I may still be full of glee
And gladsomeness, where'er I be,
Though fickle fate hath prison'd me
In some neglected nook.

Ye have been very kind and good
To me, since I've been in the wood;
Ye have gone nigh to fill my heart;
But good-bye, kind friends, every one,
I've far to go ere set of sun;

Of all good things I would have part,
The day was high ere I could start,
And so my journey's scarce begun.
Heaven help me! how could I forget
To beg of thee, dear violet!
Some of thy modesty,

That flowers here as well, unseen,
As if before the world thou 'dst been,
Oh give, to strengthen me.

-American.

J. R. LOWELL, 1819—

OURSELVES.

NAY, be not discouraged; why should you repine Because you your destiny cannot divine?

There's One who discerns every secret desire

Who knows to what heights of delight you aspire;

And be sure all He doeth is done for the best:
Let contentment then brood like a dove in your breast;
For often we grumble with Fortune and Fate,
When half of our sorrows ourselves we create.

In vain we may sigh some dear object to gain,
If we use not the means the desire to obtain ;
For there's truth in the fable, and well 'tis I feel
To trust what old Hercules says of the wheel.
The pearls may lie deep 'neath the ocean's dark wave,
But the jewel is only secured by the brave:

And victors in Life's mighty battle are still
Perseverance, with Truth, and a resolute Will.

Oh! those who preach doctrines of faith without works,
In their hearts I'm suspicious that indolence lurks;
And to drones in the hive I'm a pitiless foe;
For why should they reap who help never to sow?
As for ill-luck, believe me, Exertion and Will
Are giants of prowess, of conquering skill;

And the heart that's in earnest no bars can impede,
Its certain prerogative is to succeed.

Never think of the fearful, the coward's word, "fail ;"
Nor at Fortune, or Fate, or Society rail;

But your heart and your actions with faithfulness read,
And, believe me, you'll find why you do not succeed.
Wait not then a moment, but strike to the root
Of the evil, and start on some noble pursuit ;
And be not unjust when you murmur at Fate,
One half of your sorrows yourself you create.

ROWLAND BROWN, 1837—