Crown Jewels: Or Gems of Literature, Art and Music ; Being Choice Selections ...

Labor is life!-'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!-the flying cloud lightens ;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens ;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens :

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-sirens that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work-thou shalt ride over care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath woe's weeping willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health!-Lo! the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labor is wealth-in the sea the pearl groweth;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth ;
Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee:

Rest not content in thy darkness—a clod! Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly :

Labor -all labor is noble and holy ;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God. FRANCES Sargent OSGOOD.

THE FACTORY GIRL'S LAST DAY.

Robert Dale Owen, in one of the chapters of his autobiography, reproduces the following poem, written many years ago to illustrate an incident of English factory life.

'WAS on a winter morning,

The weather wet and wild, Two hours before the dawning The father roused his child; Her daily morsel bringing,

The darksome room he paced, And cried, “The bell is ringing; My hapless darling, haste!"

Dear father, I'm so sorry!

I scarce can reach the door;
And long the way and dreary;
Oh, carry me once more! "
Her wasted form seems nothing;
The load is on his heart;
He soothes the little sufferer,
Till at the mill they part.

The overlooker met her
As to her frame she crept ;
And with his thong he veat her,
And cursed her when she wept.
It seemed, as she grew weaker,
The threads the oftener broke,
The rapid wheels ran quicker,
And heavier fell the stroke.

She thought how her dead mother
Blessed with her latest breath,
And of her little brother,

Worked down, like her, to death; Then told a tiny neighbor

A half-penny she'd pay
To take her last hour's labor,
While by her frame she lay.

The sun had long descended
Ere she sought that repose;
Her day began and ended

As cruel tyrants chose.
Then home! but oft she tarried;
She fell, and rose once more;
By pitying comrades carried,
She reached her father's door.

At night, with tortured feeling,
He watched his sleepless child;
Though close beside her kneeling,
She knew him not, nor smiled.
Again the factory's ringing

Her last perceptions tried ; Up from her straw-bed springing, "It's time!" she shrieked, and died.

That night a chariot passed her,
While on the ground she lay ;
The daughters of her master

An evening visit pay.
Their tender hearts were sighing,

As negro's wrongs were told
While the white slave was dying
Who gained their father's gold.

THE CORAL-INSECT.

'OIL on! toil on! ye ephemeral train,

Who build in the tossing and treacherous

main ;

Toil on-for the wisdom of man ye mock,

With your sand-based structures and domes of rock:
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave,
And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear

A fabric so vast, in a realm so drear.

Ye bind the deep with your secret zone,
The ocean is sealed, and the surge a stone;
Fresh wreaths from the coral pavement spring,
Like the terraced pride of Assyria's king;

The turf looks green where the breakers rolled;
O'er the whirlpool ripens the rind of gold;
The sea-snatched isle is the home of men,
And the mountains exult where the wave hath been.

But why do ye plant 'neath the billows dark
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossomed sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup;
There are foes that watch for his cradle breath;
And why need you sow the floods with death?
With mouldering bones the deeps are white,
From the ice-clad pole to the tropics bright;
The mermaid hath twisted her fingers cold
With the mesh of the sea-boy's curls of gold,
And the gods of ocean have frowned to see
The mariner's bed in their halls of glee;
Hath earth no graves, that ye thus must spread
The boundless sea for the thronging dead?

Ye build-ye build—but ye enter not in,

Like the tribes whom the desert devoured in their sin;
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your weary eye;
As the kings of the cloud-crowned pyramid,
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid,

Ye slumber unmarked 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.
LYDIA HUNtley Sigourney.

RING OUT, WILD BELLS!

ING out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light;
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new

Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,

For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of paltry strife; Ring in the nobler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,

But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease,
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold,
Ring out the thousand wars of old;
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man, and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE GOOD TIME COMING.

HERE'S a good time coming, boys,
A good time coming :
We may not live to see the day,
But earth shall glisten in the ray
Of the good time coming.
Cannon balls may aid the truth,

But thought's a weapon stronger;
We'll win our battle by its aid ;-

Wait a little longer.