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LIGHT FOR ALL.
You cannot pay with money the million sons of toil-
You gaze on the cathedral, whose turrets meet the sky;
The workshop must be crowded, that the palace may be bright;
See, light darts down from heaven, and enters where it may;
The man who turns the soil need not have an earthly mind; ;
What cheers the musing student, the poet, the divine ?
Ye men who hold the pen, rise like a band inspired,
From the German.
Two men I honour and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man's. Venerable to me is the hand, hard and coarse; wherein notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face all weather-tanned, besoiled, with his rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living man-like. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee ! Hardly entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed; thou wert our conscript on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee too lay a God-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour; and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on : thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, daily bread.
A second man I honour, and still more highly, him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable--not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavouring towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low ? Highest of all when his outward and his inward endeavour are one : when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us! Íf the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return that he may have light, guidance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, honour: all else'is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.-CARLYLE.
There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work. Were he ever so benighted, or forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works; in idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of labour, the whole soul of a man is composed into real harmony. He bends himself with free valour against his task; and doubt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, despair itself, shrink murmuring far off into their caves. The glow of labour in him is a purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up; and of smoke itself, there is made a bright and blessed flame.
Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness; he has a life purpose. Labour is life. From the heart of the worker rises the celestial force, breathed into him by Almighty God, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowledge. Hast thou valued patience, courage, openness to light, or readiness to own thy mistakes ? In wrestling with the dim brute powers of fact, thou wilt continually learn. For every noble work the possibilities are diffused through immensity, undiscoverable except to faith.
Man, son of heaven ! is there not in thine inmost heart a spirit of active method, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it? Complain not. Look up, wearied brother. See thy fellow-workmen surviving through eternity, the sacred band of immortals !
THE DEAD PAN.*
Earth outgrows the mystic fancies
Pan, Pan is dead.
Truth is fair, should we forego it?
Let Pan be dead.
Truth is large. Our aspirations
When Pan is dead.
What is true, and just, and honest,
Ere Pan was dead.
0, brave poets, keep back nothing;
Pan, Pan is dead.-BROWNING.
* Pan-according to the Ancients-was the god of shepherds, huntsmen, and rustics generally. He was worshipped very extensively, but particularly in Arcadia.
THE DAY IS DONE.
Falls from the wings of Night,
From an eagle in his flight.
Gleam through the rain and the mist;
That my soul cannot resist.
Some simple and heartfelt lay
And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the bards sublime,
Through the corridors of Time;
Their mighty thoughts suggest
And to-night I long for rest.
Whose songs gushed from his heart,
Or tears from the eyelids start;
Of wonderful melodies.
And the cares that infest the day,
And as silently steal away. LONGFELLOW.
THE MEN OF THE NORTH.
midnight is sleepy with balm-
Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
THE TWO SONS. I have a son, a little son, a boy just five years old, With eyes of thoughtful earnestness, and mind of gentle mould. They tell me that unusual grace in all his ways appears, That my child is grave and wise of heart, beyond his childish years. I cannot say how this may be, but I know his face is fair: And yet his greatest comeliness is his sweet and serious air; I know his heart is kind and fond, I know be loveth me, And loveth yet his mother more, with grateful fervency: But that which others most admire, is the thought which fills his
mind, The food for grave inquiring speech he every where doth find. Strange questions doth he ask of me, when we together walk; He scarcely thinks as children think, or talks as children talk. Nor cares he much for childish sports, dotes not on bat or ball, But looks on manhood's ways and works, and aptly mimics alí. His little heart is busy still, and oftentimes perplext With thoughts about this world of ours, and thoughts about the
next. He kneels at his dear mother's knee, she teacheth him to pray, And strange, and sweet, and solemn, then, are the words which he Oh! should my gentle child be spared to manhood's years like me, A holier and a wiser man I trust that he will be: And when I look into his eyes, and stroke his thoughtful brow, I dare not think what I should feel, were I to lose him now.