Hope springs eternal in the human breast: Lo, the poor Indian! whose untutored mind Yet simple Nature to his hope has given, Where slaves once more their native land behold; He asks no angel's wing, no seraph's fire; But thinks, admitted to that equal sky, THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.-Hood. WITH fingers weary and worn, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch "Work! work! work! While the cock is crowing aloof! 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, "Work! work! work! Till the brain begins to swim; Till the eyes are heavy and dim! Oh, Men, with Sisters dear! Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives! Stitch! stitch! stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, "But why do I talk of Death? Oh, God! that bread should be so dear, "Work! work! work! My labour never flags; And what are its wages? A bed of straw, A crust of bread—and rags. That shattered roof-and this naked floor A table-a broken chair And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank For sometimes falling there! "Work! work! work! From weary chime to chime, As prisoners work for crime! Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed, "Work! work! work! In the dull December light; And work! work! work! When the weather is warm and bright- The brooding swallows cling, "Oh! but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet- To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want, "Oh, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, A little weeping would ease my heart, My tears must stop, for every drop With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch, TRY AGAIN. E. Cook. KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down "Tis true he was a monarch, and wore a crown, For he had been trying to do a great deed, He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed, He flung himself down in low despair, As grieved as man could be; And after a while as he pondered there, "I'll give it all up," said he. Now just at the moment a spider dropped, With its silken cobweb clue, And the King in the midst of his thinking stopped, 'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome, It soon began to cling and crawl Straight up with strong endeavour, But down it came, with a slipping sprawl, Up, up it ran; not a second it stayed, Till it fell still lower, and there it laid, Its head grew steady-again it went, Again it fell and swung below, But again it quickly mounted, Till up and down, now fast, now slow, "Sure," cried the King, "that foolish thing Will strive no more to climb, When it toils so hard to reach and cling, But up the insect went once more,— Ah me, 'tis an anxious minute, He's only a foot from his cobweb door, Oh, say, will he lose or win it! Steadily, steadily, inch by inch, Higher and higher he got, And a bold little run at the very last pinch, "Bravo, bravo!" the King cried out, And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind, That he tried once more, as he tried before, |