NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK. BY C. F. ORNE. Ho! ye who at the anvil toil, While answering to the hammer's ring, Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil To have no work to do. Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil, But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil To have no work to do. Ho! ye who plough the sea's blue field, Around whose bark the wintry winds Like fiends of fury rave- To have no work to do. Ho! ye upon whose fevered cheeks Whose mental toil wears out the day Who labour for the souls of men, Champions of truth and right- To have no work to do. Ho! all who labour, all who strive, Ye wield a lofty power; Do with your might, do with your strength, Fill every golden hour! The glorious privilege to do, Is man's most noble dower. Oh! to your birthright and yourselves, To your own souls, be true! Who have no work to do. WHAT IS THAT, MOTHER ? BY DOANE. WHAT is that, mother?— The Lark, my child,— The morn has just looked out, and smiled, And a hymn in his heart, to yon pure bright sphere, To warble it out in his Maker's ear. Ever, my child, be thy morn's first lays Tuned, like the lark's, to thy Maker's praise. What is that, mother?— The Dove, my son, And that low, sweet voice, like the widow's moan, In friendship as faithful, as constant in love. What is that, mother ?— The Eagle, boy, Proudly careering his course of joy, Firm, in his own mountain vigour relying, What is that, mother ?— The Swan, my love,— He is floating down from his native grove, No loved one now, no nestling nigh; Death darkens his eye, and unplumes his wings, THE SAILOR'S MOTHER. BY WORDSWORTH. ONE morning (raw it was and wet, A woman on the road I met, Not old, though something past her prime; The ancient spirit is not dead; Old times, thought I, are breathing there; Such strength, a dignity so fair: She begged an alms, like one in poor estate, I looked at her again, nor did my pride abate. When from these lofty thoughts I woke, "What is it," said I, "that you bear, Beneath the covert of your cloak, Protected from this cold damp air?" She answered, soon as she the question heard, "A simple burthen, Sir, a little singing-bird." And, thus continuing, she said, "I had a son, who many a day Sailed on the seas, but he is dead; In Denmark he was cast away: And I have travelled weary miles to see If aught which he had owned might still remain for me. The bird and cage they both were his : 'Twas my son's bird; and neat and trim He kept it: many voyages This singing-bird had gone with him; When last he sailed, he left the bird behind; From bodings, as might be, that hung upon his mind. He to a fellow-lodger's care And now, God help me for my little wit! I bear it with me, Sir ;-he took so much delight in it." THE DYING GLADIATOR. BY BYRON. I SEE before me the gladiator lie; He leans upon his hand, his manly brow Like the first of a thunder-shower; and now The arena swims around him. he is gone, Ere ceased the inhuman shout which hailed the wretch who won. He heard it, but he heeded not-his eyes All this rushed with his blood. Shall he expire, N |