CAROLINE ELIZABETH NORTON. As if, whate'er the spirit's key, It strengthened in that solemn air. The heart soon grows to mournful things; And drew their sap all kingly yet! Is broken from some mighty thought; And sculptures in the dust still breathe The fire with which their lines were wrought; And sundered arch, and plundered tomb, Still thunder back the echo, "Rome." 173 The dying soldier faltered, and he took that comrade's hand, And he said, "I nevermore shall see my Take a message, and a token, to some own, my native land; distant friends of mine, BINGEN ON THE RHINE. A SOLDIER of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, There was lack of woman's nursing, there was dearth of woman's tears; But a comrade stood beside him, while his life-blood ebbed away, And bent, with pitying glances, to hear what he might say. Listen! that eloquent whisper, upspring-| From the fine acorn the strong forest ing bloweth; Temple and statue the marble block hides. Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, ill. Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman reaping, How through his veins goes the life-current leaping! Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee; How his strong arm in its stalwart 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 frail cocoon floweth; Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee: Rest not content in thy darkness, a clod! Work for some good, be it ever SO Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly: Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on In finding thee are all things round us thy pillow; found; Work, In losing thee are all things lost beside; Ears have we, but in vain sweet voices thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow; Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow! Work with a stout heart and resolute will! JONES VERY. [U. s. A.] FATHER! thy wonders do not singly stand, In marvels rich to thine own sons dis- sound, And to our eyes the vision is denied. Open our eyes, that we that world may see! Open our ars, that we thy voice may And in the spirit-land may ever be, near. TO THE PAINTED COLUMBINE. BRIGHT image of the early years When glowed my cheek as red as thou, |
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