MARY N. PRESCOTT. The sea has been friend, and fire, and bread; ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. TWO MOODS. I PLUCKED the harebells as I went Put me, where it will tell of me, lying Singing along the river-side; dead, How It called, and I rose and went. “I've been sweeping the cobwebs out of the sky; I've been grinding a grist in the mill hard by; I've been laughing at work while others sigh; Let those laugh who win!" Sweet rain, soft rain, what are you doing? "I'm urging the corn to fill out its cells; I'm helping the lily to fashion its bells; I'm swelling the torrent and brimming the wells; Is that worth pursuing?" 337 The skies above were opulent The curlews called along the shore; Perhaps, to-day, some other one, The world is sweet." ARTHUR O'SHAUGHNESSY. SONG OF A FELLOW-WORKER. Redbreast, red breast, what have you done? I FOUND a fellow-worker when I deemed "I've been watching the nest where my fledgelings lie; I've sung them to sleep with a lullaby; Honey-bee, honey-bee, where are you go- "To fill my basket with precious pelf; A secret worth the knowing!" Each content with the work to be done, Wind and rain fulfilling His word! Or the rain, that was bidden to fall, de- I toiled alone: My toil was fashioning thought and sound, and his was hewing stone; I worked in the palace of my brain, he in the common street, And it seemed his toil was great and hard, I said, "O fellow-worker, yea, for I am a For while I toil great tears of joy will sometimes fill my eyes, And when I form my perfect work it lives and never dies. "I carve the marble of pure thought until Soul-stirring recollections, T. K. HERVEY. With hopes, their bright reflections. Rush to my troubled heart at thought of thee, My own illustrious, injured Italy. Dear queen of snowy mountains, Within whose rocky, heaven-aspiring pale 339 To praise it right, thine own sweet tones That rock soon destined to dissolve away would fail; Hail to thee! hail! "And yet for days it seems my heart shall | That while they nobly held it as each blossom never more, And the burden of my loneliness lies on me very sore: Therefore, O hewer of the stones that pave base human ways, How canst thou bear the years till death, made of such thankless days?" Then he replied: "Ere sunrise, when the pale lips of the day Sent forth an earnest thrill of breath at warmth of the first ray, A great thought rose within me, how, while men asleep had lain, The thousand labors of the world had grown up once again. "The sun grew on the world, and on my soul the thought grew too, A great appalling sun, to light my soul the long day through. I felt the world's whole burden for a moment, then began With man's gigantic strength to do the labor of one man. "I went forth hastily, and lo! I met a hundred men, The worker with the chisel and the worker with the pen, The restless toilers after good, who sow and never reap, And one who maketh music for their souls that may not sleep. "Each passed me with a dauntless look, and my undaunted eyes Were almost softened as they passed with tears that strove to rise At sight of all those labors, and because that every one, Ay, the greatest, would be greater if my little were undone. "They passed me, having faith in me, and in our several ways, Together we began to-day as on the other days: I felt their mighty hands at work, and, as the day wore through, Perhaps they felt that even I was helping somewhat too: "Perhaps they felt, as with those hands they lifted mightily The burden once more laid upon the world so heavily, man can do and bear, It did not wholly fall my side as though no man were there. |