Another round, another round
Of labor thrown away,-
Another chain of toil and pain
Dragged through a tedious day.

"Of no avail is constant zeal,
Love's sacrifice is loss,

The hopes of morn, so golden, turn
Each evening into dross.

"I squander on a barren field,
My strength, my life, my all,
The seeds I sow will never grow,
They perish where they fall.”

He sighed, and low upon his hands
His aching brow he prest;
And o'er his frame, erelong there came
A soothing sense of rest.

And then he lifted up his face,

But started back aghast,

The room by strange and sudden change Assumed proportions vast.

It seemed a Senate hall, and one
Addressed a listening throng;

Each burning word all bosoms stirred,
Applause rose loud and long.

The 'wildered teacher thought he knew
The speaker's voice and look,

"And for his name," said he, "the same
Is in my record-book."

The stately Senate hall dissolved,
A church rose in its place,
Wherein there stood a man of God,
Dispensing words of grace.

And though he spoke in solemn tone,
And though his hair was gray,

The teacher's thought was strangely wrought, "I whipped that boy to-day."

The church, a phantasm, vanished soon;
What saw the teacher then?
In classic gloom of alcoved room,
An author plied his pen.

'My idlest lad!" the teacher said, Filled with a new surprise"Shall I behold his name enrolled Among the great and wise?"

The vision of a cottage home
The teacher now descried;

A mother's face illumed the place
Her influence sanctified.

"A miracle! a miracle!

This matron, well I know,

Was but a wild and careless child

Not half an hour ago.

"And when she to her children speaks

Of duty's golden rule,

Her lips repeat, in accents sweet,
My words to her at school."

The scene was changed again, and lo,
The school-house rude and old,
Upon the wall did darkness fall,

The evening air was cold.

"A dream!" the sleeper, waking, said, Then paced along the floor,

And, whistling slow and soft and low,
He locked the school-house door.

And, walking home, his heart was full Of peace and trust and love and praise; And singing slow and soft and low,

He murmured, "After many days."

Celia Tharter.

1836.

THE SANDPIPER.

Across the narrow beach we flit,
One little sandpiper and I;
And fast I gather, bit by bit,

The scattered driftwood, bleached and dry.
The wild waves reach their hands for it,
The wild wind raves, the tide runs high,

As

up

and down the beach we flit,— One little sandpiper and I.

Above our heads the sullen clouds

Scud black and swift across the sky; Like silent ghosts, in misty shrouds Stand out the white light-houses high. Almost as far as eye can reach,

I see the close-reefed vessels fly, As fast we flit along the beach,One little sandpiper and I.

I watch him as he skims along
Uttering his sweet and mournful cry ;
He starts not at my fitful song,
Or flash of fluttering drapery ;
He has no thought of any wrong;

He scans me with a fearless eye.

Stanch friends are we, well tried and strong, This little sandpiper and I.

Comrade, where wilt thou be to-night
When the loosed storm breaks furiously?
My driftwood fire will burn so bright!
To what warm shelter canst thou fly?
I do not fear for thee, though wroth

The tempest rushes through the sky;
For are we not God's children both,
Thou, little sandpiper, and I?

A SONG OF EASTER.

Sing, children, sing!

And the lily censers swing;

Sing that life and joy are waking and that Death no more is king.

Sing the happy, happy tumult of the slowly brightening Spring ;

Sing, little children, sing!

Sing, children, sing!

Winter wild has taken wing.

Fill the air with the sweet tidings till the frosty echoes ring!

Along the eaves the icicles no longer glittering

cling;

And the crocus in the garden lifts its bright face

to the sun,

And in the meadows softly the brooks begin to

run;