ADDITIONAL READINGS CHARLES DICKENS: Hard Times. Death of Paul Dombey. HARRIET BEECHER STOWE: Death of Eva, in Uncle Tom's Cabin. HENRY WARD BEECHER: Death of Lincoln. BROWNING: Evelyn Hope. The Guardian Angel. TENNYSON: Crossing the Bar. Break, Break, Break. MRS. BROWNING: The Sleep. ADAMS: Nearer, My God, to Thee. WHITTIER: Thy Will be Done. Eternal Goodness. The Angel of Patience. BRYANT: Thanatopsis. WORDSWORTH: Intimations of Immortality. HOLMES: The Voiceless. GRAY: Elegy Written in a Country Churchyard. MCCREERY: There is No Death. ELIOT: The Choir Invisible. PRIEST: Over the River. BACON: Of Death. ALICE BROWN: Rosy Balm. SARAH ORNE JEWETT: The White Heron. THE NATURE OF LOVE Love is the river of life in this world. Think not that ye know it who stand at the little tinkling rill-the first small fountain. Not until you have gone through the rocky gorges, and not lost the stream; not until you have gone through the meadow, and the stream has widened and deepened until fleets could ride on its bosom; not until beyond the meadow you have come to the unfathomable ocean, and poured your treasures into its depths-not until then can you know what love is. Henry Ward Beecher. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT THOMAS HOOD, who wrote so touchingly of his childhood home, found it impossible to observe the life of the poor without pity welling up within and overflowing his heart. In his day, the condition of the workingman and seamstress was even worse than it is to-day. Long hours, insufficient light and air, and scanty wage all combined to cause the labor performed to absorb the entire life of the worker. Work itself is ennobling. Drudgery is always blighting. No greater service can be rendered the race than to make work pleasanter and more varied. Nature seems to demand a rhythmic accompaniment to whatever we do with our hands. The mower whets his scythe to a tune. The sailor sings a certain song to a certain tune as he works the windlass. The slave gang gives utterance to a monotonous chant as they writhe under the overseer's tasks. So it seemed to the poet that there was an undertone of ineffable sadness peculiar to the seamstress' work as she spent the long hours bending over the interminable task of sewing, that others might be comfortable and satisfied with their appearance. THE SONG OF THE SHIRT With fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, She sang the "Song of the Shirt." "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! And work-work-work, Till the stars shine through the roof! It's oh! to be a slave Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save, If this is Christian work! "Work-work-work, Till the brain begins to swim; Work-work-work, Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Band, and gusset, and seam, "Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! It is not linen you're wearing out, But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death, That Phantom of grisly bone? Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, "Work-work-work! My labor never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread-and rags. That shattered roof-and this naked floor- And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank "Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam, Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd, As well as the weary hand. "Work-work-work, In the dull December light, And work-work-work, When the weather is warm and bright While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling As if to show me their sunny backs "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet— With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! "Oh! but for one short hour! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop |