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What makes them hostile? IGNORANCE;

Then let me not despair.

But oh! I sigh when home I come

May God the thought forgive!

If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

[VICTORIA

The

In the following piece, we see the hostility of ignorance overcome. cat and dog are replaced by human beings, and the home of taste is the home of happiness:

THE HOME OF TASTE.

You seek the home of taste, and find

The proud mechanic there,

Rich as a king, and less a slave,

Throned in his elbow-chair!

Or on his sofa reading Locke,
Beside his open door!

Why start?-wby envy worth like his?
The carpet on his floor?

You seek the home of sluttery

"Is John at home?" you say.

"No, sir; he's at the 'Sportsman's Arms;'
The dog-fight's o'er the way."

Oh lift the workman's heart and mind
Above low sensual sin!

Give him a home! the home of taste!
Outbid the house of gin!

Oh give him taste! it is the link

Which binds us to the skies-
A bridge of rainbows thrown across
The gulf of tears and sighs;

Or like a widower's little one-
An angel in a child-

That leads him to her mother's chair,
And shows him how she smiled.

SATURDAY.

To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann—
Get up, my child, with me;
Thy father rose at four o'clock
To toil for me and thee.

The fine folks use the plate he makes,
And praise it when they dine;
For John has taste-so we'll be neat,
Although we can't be fine.

Then let us shake the carpet well,

And wash and scour the floor,
And hang the weather-glass he made
Beside the cupboard-door.

And polish thou the grate, my love;
I'll mend the sofa arm;

The autumn winds blow damp and chill;
And John loves to be warm.

And bring the new white curtain out,
And string the pink tape on-
Mechanics should be neat and clean;
And I'll take heed for John.

And brush the little table, child,
And fetch the ancient books-
John loves to read, and when he reads,
How like a king he looks!

And fill the music-glasses up

With water fresh and clear;
To-morrow, when he sings and plays,
The street will stop to hear.

And throw the dead flowers from the vase,
And rub it till it glows;

For in the leafless garden yet

He'll find a winter rose.

And lichen from the wood he'll bring,

And mosses from the dell;

And from the sheltered stubble-field
The scarlet pimpernell.

"All this preparation is made for the father of the family, the poor mechanic, who has got to the end of his week of toil, and is coming-home! not to look like a king, but to be a king for two nights and a day. Do we say the poor mechanic? Why, there is no king in Europe so rich! He has earned his otium cum dignitate (which they have not); it is his right, not inherited from dead men, but the achievement of his own power and will; and for the bows, and grimaces, and lip-service of hollow courtiers, he is surrounded by loving looks, and sympathizing hearts, and willing hands."

RUB OR RUST.

Idler, why lie down to die?

Better rub than rust.

Hark! the lark sings in the sky-
"Die when die thou must!

Day is waking, leaves are shaking,
Better rub than rust."

In the grave there's sleep enough-
"Better rub than rust:

Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof,
Die when die thou must;

Men are mowing, breezes blowing,
Better rub than rust."

He who will not work shall want;
Naught for naught is just-
Won't do, must do, when he can't;
"Better rub than rust.

Bees are flying, sloth is dying,
Better rub than rust."

THE PRESS.

God said "Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might,
And fled away;

Then startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,
And cried-"'Tis day! 'tis day!"
"Hail, holy light!" exclaimed
The thundrous cloud that flamed
O'er daisies white;

And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd,
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;

And, blushing, murmur'd-" Light!"
Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;
Then floods of praise

Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers, all clad
In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God

Be senseless as the trodden clod,
And darker than the tomb?

No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our sire!

Our souls have holy light within;
And every form of grief and sin
Shall see and feel its fire.
By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven!

Mind, mind alone

Is light, and hope, and life, and power! Earth's deepest night, from this blessed hour, The night of minds, is gone!

"The Press!" all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring,
All lands to bless :

O pallid Want! O Labor stark !
Behold we bring the second ark!

The Press! the Press! the Press!

FOREST WORSHIP.

Within the sun-lit forest,

Our roof the bright blue sky,

Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow, We lift our hearts on high;

Beneath the frown of wicked men

Our country's strength is bowing;
But, thanks to God, they can't prevent
The lone wild flowers from blowing!

High, high above the tree-tops,

The lark is soaring free;

Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see;

Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying; But, thank'd be God, in spite of them, The lark still warbles flying!

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!"
"Lord, bless us!" echo cries;
"Amen!" the breezes murmur low;
"Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts
The proud with pangs are paying;
But here, O God of earth and heaven!
The humble heart is praying!

How softly in the pauses

Of song, re-echoed wide,

The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay,
O'er rill and river glide!

With evil deeds of evil men

The affrighted land is ringing;
But still, O Lord! the pious heart
And soul-toned voice are singing!

Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth:
"Woe to the oppressor, woe!"
But sudden gloom o'ercasts the sun
And sadden'd flowers below;
So frowns the Lord!-but, tyrants, ye
Deride his indignation,

And see not in the gather'd brow
Your days of tribulation!

Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher!
The tempest bursts above:
God whispers in the thunder: hear
The terrors of his love!

On useful hands, and honest hearts,
The base their wrath are wreaking;
But, thank'd be God! they can't prevent
The storm of heaven from speaking.

FLOWERS FOR THE HEART.

Flowers! winter flowers!-the child is dead,
The mother cannot speak:
Oh softly couch his little head,
Or Mary's heart will break!
Amid those curls of flaxen hair
This pale pink ribbon twine,
And on the little bosom there

Place this wan lock of mine.

How like a form in cold white stone,97 The coffin'd infant lies!

Look, mother, on thy little one!

And tears will fill thine eyes.

She cannot weep-more faint she grows,

More deadly pale and still:

Flowers! oh, a flower! a winter rose,

That tiny hand to fill.

Go, search the fields! the lichen wet

Bends o'er the unfailing well;

Beneath the furrow lingers yet
The scarlet pimpernel.

Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower,
Where never froze the spring?

A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower!
The half-blown daisy bring!

Yes, lay the daisy's little head

Beside the little cheek;

Oh haste! the last of five is dead!
The childless cannot speak!

[graphic]

SLEEP.

Sleep! to the homeless, thou art home;
The friendless find in thee a friend;

And well is he, where'er he roam,
Who meets thee at his journey's end.

Thy stillness is the planet's speed;

Thy weakness is unmeasured might;

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