That I should render for my part Which, fired with incense, I resign But the acceptance—that must be, ROBERT HERRICK, 1591-1660. THE COMMON LOT. MOURN not thy daughter fading! It is the common lot, That those we love should come and go, Her life was short, but fair, Unsullied by a blot; And now she sinks to dreamless rest, (A dove who makes the earth her nest ;) So, murmur not! No pangs, nor passionate grief, Nor anger raging hot, No ills shall ever harm her more; Where pain is not. Weep'st thou that none should mourn Peace, peace! and know that few e'er grieve, Life's little knot. E'en thou scarce wept must fade! To link our hearts to things that fly, To love without return,—and die, And be-forgot! B. W. PROCTER, 1790— SWEET IS THE PEASANT'S SLEEP! SWEET is the peasant's sleep! Refreshing are his dreams! No tantalising scenes of wealth Mock him, possess'd of ease and health, He fears not murderers, storms, nor fire, But Innocence and Peace inspire And when the cheerful morn The watchful cock proclaims aloud, Light fly his slumbers, as a cloud, Reflected by the noonday sun, On wings of light is borne; No headache veils, in mantle dun, Goddess of sweet repose! While toil invites my limbs to rest, With thy warm pinions shield my breast; Breathe through my lips thy kindest dreams, My willing eyelids close, And as the peasant's slumber seems, Be such my kind repose. -Poetical Register, 1806, "BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN." Oн, deem not they are blest alone The light of smiles shall fill again There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night; And thou, who, o'er thy friend's low bier, Nor let the good man's trust depart, For God has mark'd each sorrowing day, And heaven's long age of bliss shall pay W. C. BRYANT, 1798 -American. WORK, HOPE, AND TRUST! (THE POOR MAN TO HIS SON.) WORK, work, my boy, be not afraid, And blush not for your humble place. Earth was first conquer'd by the power And where would kings have found their dower, Hold up your brow in honest pride, Though rough and swarth your hands may be ; Such hands are sap-veins that provide The life-blood of the Nation's tree. There's honour in the toiling part, That finds us in the furrow'd fields; It stamps a crest upon the heart Worth more than all your quarter'd shields. There's glory in the shuttle's song, There's triumph in the anvil's stroke: There's merit in the brave and strong, Who dig the mine or fell the oak. |