OUR calling, however the vulgar may deem,
Was of old, both on high and below, in esteem;
E'en the gods were to much curiosity given,
For Hermes was only the newsman of heaven.
Hence with wings to his cap, and his staff, and his heels,
He depictured appears, which our myst'ry reveals ; That news flies like wind, to raise sorrow or laughter, While, leaning on Time, Truth comes heavily after.
THE WEAVER'S SONG.
WEAVE, brothers, weave !-swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,
And show us how brightly your flowers grow
That have beauty but not perfume :
Come, show us the rose with a hundred dyes,
The lily that hath no spot,
The violet deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not.
Sing, sing, brothers! weave and sing,
'Tis good both to sing and weave;
'Tis better to work than live idle,
'Tis better to sing than grieve.
Weave, brothers, weave! weave and bid
The colours of sunset glow;
Let grace in each gliding thread be hid,
Let beauty about ye blow:
Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure;
And time nor chance shall your work untwine,
But all like a truth endure.
Weave, brothers, weave!-toil is ours,
But toil is the lot of man;
One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!
There is not a creature, from England's king
To the peasant that delves the soil,
That knows half the pleasure the seasons bring, If he have not his share of toil.
So, sing, brothers, &c.
BARRY CORNWALL.
A FACTORY SONG.
BRIGHTLY, brightly shines the skein,
Golden yellow, smooth and soft;
But the slender silken thread,
Winding, see! is broken oft.
Well, no matter, find the end,
A little knot soon makes a mend;
But watch the knotty place with care,
'Tis apt to break again just there.
Like the silk our tempers seem,
Smooth and even till they're tried! But oft we see the thread of peace
Broke short by roughness and by pride.
Well now quickly join the ends ;
Forgive! forget! shake hands! be friends!
But watch the knotty place with care,
Lest it should break again just there.
THE SPINNING-WHEEL.
THE wheel, oh, how it hums!
The merry spinning-wheel.
Good dame, when the snow comes,
The shepherd shall not feel
The blast; with plaid and hose
He'll breast the winter storm,
And hark! how loud it blows
Around our ingle warm!
O dame, thy sailor-boy
Upon the giddy mast
Sits high, and sings with joy
(Tottering before the blast).
God speed the murmuring wheel,
That spins the lambkin's fleece,
Which wraps us while we reel
Across the swelling seas.
And he, the sire! that's gone
Up to the summit's rock,
To watch through night, alone,
The wanderings of his flock,
Afar the fagot's flame
Upon the hearth he spies,
And prays God bless the dame
Her busy wheel that plies.
SONG FOR THE SPINNING-WHEEL.
SWIFTLY turn the murmuring wheel!
Night has brought the welcome hour,
When the weary fingers feel
Help, as if from faëry power;
Dewy night o'ershades the ground;
Turn the swift wheel round and round!
Now, beneath the starry sky,
Crouch the widely scattered sheep ;-
Ply the pleasant labour, ply!
For the spindle, while they sleep,
Runs with motion smooth and fine,
Gathering up a trustier line.
Short-lived likings may be bred
By a glance from fickle eyes;
But true love is like the thread
Which the kindly wool supplies,
When the flocks are all at rest
Sleeping on the mountain's breast.
A SONG FOR THE DRESSMAKERS.
I SAW that look of anguish,
And I heard that sob of pain;
Is life so very weary,
As ye stitch and stitch again?
Lack ye all thoughts of gladness,
As ye ply your daily task ?
Or is it rest and freedom,
That the tired eyelids ask?
Ye are thinking of the spring-tide,
And that blessèd time of flowers;
Do ye long to hear the birds sing,
And to see the April showers?
Your sunshine seems all darkness,
And your air the smoke of towns ;
Do ye pant to feel the wind blow
O'er the fresh and grassy downs?
Still ye must toil and labour,
For ye need the daily bread;
Still ye must hold the needle,
Ye must draw the tightening thread. But hark! do ye catch that whisper, As it floateth from above?
'The work is not all weary,
If the heart be full of love.
For Love, it sweeteneth all things,
And it maketh all things fair,
It turneth things most common,
Into jewels bright and rare ;
It filleth life with music,
And with joys of priceless worth;
It linketh men with angels,
While it bringeth heaven to earth.'
Perhaps to-day you're working
On a robe of snowy white,
Which shall be worn to-morrow,
By a maiden young and bright.
Ye dress her for the altar,
Will ye pray for the fair bride? And for God's richest blessings On the bridegroom at her side?
I see a garment costly,
With a lustrous silvery sheen,
In which some sweet girl, blushing,
Shall bend low before her Queen.
She's entering on life's pathway,
With an eager, throbbing heart,
Oh! ask that now with Mary,
She may choose the better part.
There's raiment in that corner,
Of a dark and sable shade,
A breaking heart may wear it,—
Do ye know for whom 'tis made?
Think of her grief while working,
And ye'll soon forget your own,
And pray that God may comfort
All the desolate and lone.
Maidens, your task is worthy,
And if only ye are true
To Him who loved and saved ye,
And ye keep the prize in view,—
'Twill fill your souls with singing,
As your busy fingers move,
To think that all your labour
Such a holy work may prove.
Ye shall not toil for ever,
For the night it draweth on;
And then the morning cometh,
And your endless rest is won ;
Ye'll join the throng of blest ones,
And their happiness ye'll share,
Your own robes white and shining,-
Not a mourning garment there!
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