UP WITH THE DAWN.

Up with the dawn, ye sons of toil!

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THE SEASONS OF LIFE.

We, too, have autumns, when our leaves,

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THE QUIET LIFE.

Happy the man whose wish and care,

"A STIEVE HEART AND A STURDY STEP."

Ne'er trow the day will lower throughout,

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THE SLUGGARD.

'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,

GONE.

Another hand is beckoning on,

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To him who in the love of Nature holds,

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TO PRIMROSES, FILL'D WITH MORNING DEW.

Why do ye weep, sweet babes? Can tears,

LONGING.

Of all the myriad moods of mind,

THE SHADOW OF THE HAND.

"How varied are life's flowery paths,

THE WEAVER'S SONG,

On merrily speeds the shuttle, boys,

THE COMMON LOT.

Once in the flight of ages past,

SHORTNESS OF HUMAN LIFE.

Mark that swift arrow, how it cuts the air,

LOWLY PLEASURES.

Methinks I love all common things,

MUTATION.-A SONNET.

They talk of short-lived Pleasure—be it so,

WORK.

What are we set on earth for?

LIFE AND DEATH.

I call'd two spirits from before God's throne,

SONG OF THE HAYMAKERS.

The noontide is hot and our foreheads are brown,

HUMILITY.

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My God, I thank Thee! may no thought,

WORK AWAY!

Work away!

SUNSHINE AND SHOWER.

The heart that is sinking in sorrow,

THE HERITAGE.

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PRACTICAL PHILOSOPHY.

For the highborn and the low,

WEALTH AND FAME.

Clad with the moss of gathering years,

REFORMER'S HYMN.

Man, work out thine own salvation,

RICH AND POOR.

When God built up the dome of blue,

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TOUCHSTONE OF ADVERSITY.

He who hath never warr'd with misery,

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WEEP NOT FOR HER.

Weep not for her!-Oh, she was far too fair,

WORK ON AND WIN.

Attend, O Man!

A BEGGAR THROUGH THE WORLD AM I.

A beggar through the world am I,

OURSELVES.

Nay, be not discouraged; why should you repine,

THE VOICE OF CHEER.

From Heaven there comes a voice of cheer,

HONOUR, GREATNESS, AND FAME.

Honour and shame from no condition rise,

GRAVE THESE COUNSELS ON THY SOUL.

Thou whom chance may hither lead,

HAPPINESS OF HUMBLE WORTH.

He is the happy man whose life e'en now,

FAME,

Oh! who shall lightly say that Fame,

THE BEST ESTATE.

The heart it hath its own estate,

UNKNOWN HEROES.

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SONGS OF LIFE AND LABOUR.

A PSALM OF LIFE.

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST.

ELL me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!

For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.

Life is real! Life is earnest !

And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.

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