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As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,
Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm,
Though round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,
Eternal sunshine settles on its head.



THE sky is ruddy in the east,

The earth is grey below,
And, spectral in the river-mist,

The ship's white timbers show.
Then let the sound of measured stroke

And grating saw begin ;
The broad axe to the gnarled oak,

The mallet to the pin !
Hark! roars the bellows, blast on blast,

The sooty smithy jars,
And fire-sparks, rising far and fast,

Are fading with the stars.
All day for us the smith shall stand

Beside that flashing forge ;
All day for us his heavy hand

The groaning anvil scourge.
From far-off hills the panting team

For us is toiling near ;
For us the raftsmen down the stream

Their island-barges steer;
Rings out for us the axe-man's stroke

In forests old and still ;
For us the century-circled oak

Falls crashing down his hill.
Up! up! in nobler toils than ours

No craftsmen bear a part :
We make of nature's giant powers

The slaves of human art.
Lay rib to rib and beam to beam,

And drive the treenails free;
Nor faithless joint, nor yawning seam,

Shall tempt the searching sea.



Where'or the keel of our good ship

The sea’s rough field shall plough,
Where'er her tossing spars shall drip

With salt spray caught below,
The ship must heed her master's beck,

Her helm obey his hand,
And seamen tread her reeling deck

As if they trod the land.
Her oaken ribs the vulture-beak

Of northern ice may peel ;
The sunken rock and coral peak

May grate along her keel;
And know we well the painted shell

We give to wind and wave
Must float, the sailor's citadel,

Or sink, the sailor's grave !
Ho! strike away the bars and blocks,

And set the good ship free!
Why lingers on these dusty rocks

bride of the sea ?
Look! how she moves adown the grooves,

In graceful beauty now!
How lowly on the breast she loves

Sinks down her virgin prow!
Speed on the ship ! but let her bear

No merchandise of sin,
No groaning cargo of despair

hold within.
No Lethean drug for eastern lands,

Nor poison-draught for ours ; But honest fruits of toiling hands,

And nature's sun and showers !
Be hers the prairie's golden grain,

The desert's golden sand,
The clustered fruits of sunny Spain,

The spice of morning-land !
Her pathway on the open main

May blessings follow free,
And glad hearts welcome back again
Her white sails from the sea !

J. G. Whitiier. 62



(By permission of the Proprietor of Mr. Anderton's TVorks.)
What is a Drunkard ? One who quaffs
Reason-expelling drugs, and laughs

At every holy thing;
The “ Prince of Air's” unquestioned prize,
At whose approach religion flies

With an affrighted wing.
What is a Drunkard ? Passion's dupe,
Whose more than brutal cravings stoop

“To drain the maddening bowl ;”
Who gratifies his swine-like lust;
And, when he does it, knows he must

Ensnare his deathless soul.
What is a Drunkard ? Read his life
In the dejection of his wife,

His children pale and wan;
And looking, thief-like, at his feet,
With dire remorselessness replete,

Behold, behold the man !
What is a Drunkard ? One who dares
God's fierce displeasure, and whose prayers

curses loud and deep;”
Whose callousness increases still,
Albeit, he knows his madness will

Undying tortures reap.
What is a Drunkard ? One for whom
The Lord descended to the tomb,

For whom our Ransom died;
And shall we not, who bear the name
Of Jesus, labour to reclaim

The gradual suicide?
God, thou art merciful as just !
And for our sins we lick the dust;

Yet, for the Firstborn's sake,
O bless the cause of Temperance here,
Stop drunkards in their mad carner,

And let thine arm awake. Henry Anderton.

Are 6




To-morrow, ma, I'm sweet sixteen,

And William Grimes, the drover,
Has popped the question to me, ma,

And wants to be my lover.
To-morrow morn, he says, mamma,

He's coming here right early,
To take a pleasant walk with me

Across the fields of barley.

You must not go, my daughter dear..

There's no use now a-talking, You shall not go across the fields

With William Grimes a-walking.
To think of his presumption, too,

A dirty ugly drover !
I wonder where your pride has gone

To think of such a rover.

Old Grimes is dead you know, mamma,

And William is so lonely ; Besides, they say, to Grimes' estate,

That William is the only
Surviving heir that's left,

And that, they say, is nearly
A good five thousand pounds, mamma-

About three hundred yearly,

I did not hear, my daughter dear,

Your last remark quite clearly; But William is a clever lad,

And no doubt loves you dearly;
Remember, then, to-morrow morn

To be up bright and early,
And take a pleasant walk with him

Across the fields of barley.





Wolsey. Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness This is the state of man : to-day he puts forth The tender leaves of hopes, to-morrow blossoms, And bears his blushing honours thick upon him ; The third day comes a frost, a killing frost; And—when he thinks, good easy man, full surely His greatness is a-ripening-nips his root; And then he falls, as I do. I have ventur'd, Like little wanton boys that swim on bladders, This many summers in a sea of glory; But far beyond my depth. My high-blown pride At length broke under me; and now has left me, Weary, and old with service, to the mercy Of a rude stream, that must for ever hide me. Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate ye ! I feel my heart new open'd. O, how wretched Is that poor man that hangs on princes' favours ! There is, betwixt that smile we would aspire to, That sweet aspect of princes, and their ruin, More pangs and fears than wars or women have; And when he falls, he falls like Lucifer, Never to hope again-

Enter CROMWELL, amazedly.

Why, how now, Cromwell ?
Cromwell. I have no power to speak, sir.

What, amaz'd
At my misfortunes ? Can thy spirit wonder
A great man should decline ? Nay, an' you weep,
I am fallen indeed.

How does your grace ?

Why, well; Never so truly happy, my good CromwellI know myself now; and I feel within me A peace above all earthly dignities, A still and quiet conscience. The king has cur'd meI humbly thank his grace—and from these shoulders, These ruin'd pillare, out of pity, taken A load would sink a navy-too much honour.

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