fearful show, The roof-ribs swarth, the candent hearth, the ruddy, lurid row

Of smiths that stand, an ardent band, like men before the foe;

As, quivering through his fleece of flame, the sailing monster slow Sinks on the anvil, all about the faces fiery grow, "Hurrah!" they shout, "leap out, leap out": bang, bang, the sledges go; Hurrah! the jetted lightnings are hissing high and low;

A hailing fount of fire is struck at every squashing blow;

The leathern mail rebounds the hail; the rattling cinders strew

The ground around; at every bound the sweltering fountains flow;

And thick and loud the swinking crowd, at every stroke, pant "Ho!"

Leap out, leap out, my masters; leap out and lay on load!

Let's forge a goodly anchor, a bower, thick and

broad;

For a heart of oak is hanging on every blow, I bode, And I see the good ship riding, all in a perilous road;

The low reef roaring on her lee, the roll of ocean poured

From stem to stern, sea after sea, the mainmast by the board;

The bulwarks down, the rudder gone, the boats stove at the chains,

But courage still, brave mariners, the bower still remains,

And not an inch to flinch he deigns save when ye pitch sky-high,

Then moves his head, as though he said, “Fear

nothing,

here am I !"

Swing in your strokes in order, let foot and hand keep time,

Your blows make music sweeter far than any steeple's chime!

But while ye swing your sledges, sing; and let the burden be,

The Anchor is the Anvil King, and royal crafts

LABOR SONG.

FROM THE BELL-FOUNDER."

AH little they know of true happiness, they whom satiety fills,

Who, flung on the rich breast of luxury, eat of the rankness that kills.

Ah little they know of the blessedness toilpurchased slumber enjoys

Who, stretched on the hard rack of indolence, taste of the sleep that destroys;

Nothing to hope for, or labor for; nothing to sigh for, or gain;

Nothing to light in its vividness, lightning-like, bosom and brain;

Nothing to break life's monotony, rippling it o'er

with its breath:

We women, when afflictions come, We only suffer and are dumb.

And when, the tempest passing by,
He gleams out, sunlike, through our sky,
We look up, and through black clouds riven
We recognize the smile of Heaven.

Ours is no wisdom of the wise,
We have no deep philosophies;
Childlike we take both kiss and rod,
For he who loveth knoweth God.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK.

TO LABOR IS TO PRAY.

sorrow, and death!

A LANCASHIRE DOXOLOGY. ["Some cotton has lately been imported into Farringdon, where the mills have been closed for a considerable time. The people.

who were previously in the deepest distress, went out to meet the

cotton: the women wept over the bales and kissed them, and finally sang the Doxology over them." — Spectator of May 14, 1863.] |

"PRAISE God from whom all blessings flow,"
Praise him who sendeth joy and woe.
The Lord who takes, the Lord who gives,
O praise him, all that dies, and lives.

He opens and he shuts his hand,
But why we cannot understand:
Pours and dries up his mercies' flood,
And yet is still All-perfect Good.

We fathom not the mighty plan,
The mystery of God and man;

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!

How his strong arm in its stalworth pride sweeping,

True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides. Labor is wealth, in the sea the pearl groweth ; Rich the queen's robe from the cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ; Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not! though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee !

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee !

Look to the pure heaven smiling beyond thee! Rest not content in thy darkness, - a clod! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly! Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly! Labor! all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God.

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

THE POOR MAN'S LABOR.

My mother sighed, the stream of pain

Flowed fast and chilly o'er her brow; My father prayed, nor prayed in vain ; Sweet Mercy, cast a glance below. "My husband dear," the sufferer cried,

My pains are o'er, behold your son.' "Thank Heaven, sweet partner," he replied; "The poor boy's labor's then begun."

Alas! the hapless life she gave

By fate was doomed to cost her own;
For soon she found an early grave,
Nor stayed her partner long alone.
They left their orphan here below,

A stranger wild beneath the sun,
This lesson sad to learn from woe, -
The poor man's labor 's never done.

No parent's hand, with pious care,

My childhood's devious steps to guide; Or bid my venturous youth beware The griefs that smote on every side.