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, Why start?-wby envy worth like his? You seek the home of sluttery "Is John at home?" you say. "No, sir; he's at the 'Sportsman's Arms;' Oh lift the workman's heart and mind Give him a home! the home of taste! Oh give him taste! it is the link Which binds us to the skies- Or like a widower's little one- That leads him to her mother's chair, SATURDAY. To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann— The fine folks use the plate he makes, Then let us shake the carpet well, And wash and scour the floor, And polish thou the grate, my love; The autumn winds blow damp and chill; And bring the new white curtain out, And brush the little table, child, And fill the music-glasses up With water fresh and clear; And throw the dead flowers from the vase, 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 "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- Day is waking, leaves are shaking, In the grave there's sleep enough- Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof, Men are mowing, breezes blowing, He who will not work shall want; Bees are flying, sloth is dying, THE PRESS. God said "Let there be light!" Then startled seas and mountains cold And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd, And, blushing, murmur'd-" Light!" Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon; And shall the mortal sons of God Be senseless as the trodden clod, No, by the mind of man! By God, our sire! Our souls have holy light within; 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; O pallid Want! O Labor stark ! 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; 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!" The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts How softly in the pauses Of song, re-echoed wide, The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay, With evil deeds of evil men The affrighted land is ringing; Hush! hush! the preacher preacheth: And see not in the gather'd brow Speak low, thou heaven-paid teacher! On useful hands, and honest hearts, FLOWERS FOR THE HEART. Flowers! winter flowers!-the child is dead, 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 Peeps not a snow-drop in the bower, A daisy? Ah! bring childhood's flower! Yes, lay the daisy's little head Beside the little cheek; Oh haste! the last of five is dead! SLEEP. Sleep! to the homeless, thou art home; And well is he, where'er he roam, Thy stillness is the planet's speed; Thy weakness is unmeasured might; |