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LIGHT FOR ALL.

You cannot pay with money the million sons of toil-
The sailor on the ocean, the peasant on the soil,
The labourer in the quarry, the hewer of the coal;
Your money pays the hand, but it cannot pay the soul.

You gaze on the cathedral, whose turrets meet the sky;
Remember the foundations that in earth and darkness lie:
For, were not those foundations so darkly resting there,
Yon high towers could never soar so proudly in the air.

The workshop must be crowded, that the palace may be bright;
If the ploughman did not plough, then the poet could not writé.
Then let every toil be hallow'd that man performs for man,
And have its share of honour as part of one great plan.

See, light darts down from heaven, and enters where it may;
The eyes of all earth's people are cheered with one bright day.
And let the mind's true sunshine be spread o’er earth as free,
And fill the souls of men as the waters fill the sea.

The man who turns the soil need not have an earthly mind; ;
The digger ’mid the coal need not be in spirit blind:
The mind can shed a light on each worthy labour done,
As lowliest things are bright in the radiance of the sun.

What cheers the musing student, the poet, the divine ?
The thought that for his followers a brighter day will shine.
Let every human labourer enjoy the vision bright-
Let the thought that comes from heaven be spread like heaven's

own light!

Ye men who hold the pen, rise like a band inspired,
And, poets, let your lyrics with hope for man be fired;
Till the earth becomes a temple, and every human heart
Shall join in one great service, each happy in his part.

From the German.

LABOUR.

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 !

CARLYLE.

THE DEAD PAN.*

Earth outgrows the mystic fancies
Sung beside her in her youth:
And those debonaire romances
Sound but dull beside the truth.
Phoebus' chariot-course is run!
Look up, poets, to the sun!

Pan, Pan is dead.

Truth is fair, should we forego it?
Can we sigh right for a wrong?
God himself is the best poet,
And the real is his song.
Sing his truth out fair and full,
And secure his beautiful!

Let Pan be dead.

Truth is large. Our aspirations
Scarce embrace half what we be.
Shame! to stand in His creation,
And doubt truth's sufficiency !
To think God's song unexcelling
The poor tales of our own telling-

When Pan is dead.

What is true, and just, and honest,
What is lovely, what is pure-
All of thought that hath admonish'd
All of virtue shall endure,-
These are themes for poets' uses,
Stirring nobler than the Muses—

Ere Pan was dead.

0, brave poets, keep back nothing;
Nor mix falsehood with the whole !
Look up Godward ! speak the truth in
Worthy song from earnest soul!
Hold in high poetic duty,
Truest Truth is fairest Beauty-

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.
The day is done, and the darkness

Falls from the wings of Night,
As a feather is wafted downwards

From an eagle in his flight.
I see the lights of the village

Gleam through the rain and the mist;
And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me

That my soul cannot resist.
Come, read to me some poem,

Some simple and heartfelt lay
That shall soothe this restless feeling,

And banish the thoughts of day.
Not from the grand old masters,

Not from the bards sublime,
Whose distant footsteps echo

Through the corridors of Time;
For, like strains of martial music,

Their mighty thoughts suggest
Life's endless toil and endeavour;

And to-night I long for rest.
Read from some humbler poet,

Whose songs gushed from his heart,
As showers from the clouds of summer,

Or tears from the eyelids start;
Who, through long days of labour,
And nights devoid of

ease,
Still heard in his soul the music

Of wonderful melodies.
And the night shall be filled with music;

And the cares that infest the day,
Shall fold their tents like the Arabs,

And as silently steal away. LONGFELLOW.

THE MEN OF THE NORTH.
Fierce as its sunlight, the East may be proud
Of its gay gaudy hues and its sky without cloud :
Mild as its breezes, the beautiful West
May smile like the valleys that dimple its breast:
The South may rejoice in the vine and the palm,
In its groves, where the

midnight is sleepy with balm-
Fair though they be,
There's an isle in the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Hear it, ye lands ! let the shout echo forth-
The lords of the world are the Men of the North!

Cold though our seasons, and dull though our skies,
There's a might in our arms and a fire in our eyes ;
Dauntless and patient, to dare and to do,-
Our watchword is “ Duty,” our maxim is “ Through !”
Winter and storm only nerve us the more,
And chill not the heart if they creep through the door:
Strong shall we be
In our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free!
Firm as the rock when the storm flashes forth,
We'll stand in our courage—the Men of the North !
Sunbeams that ripen the olive and vine,
In the face of the world and the coward may shine:
Roses may blossom where Freedom decays,
And crime be a growth of the Sun's brightest rays.
Scant though the harvest we reap from the soil,
Yet Virtue and Health are the children of Toil;
Proud let us be
Of our isle of the sea,
The home of the brave and the boast of the free:
Men with true hearts-let our fame echo forth-
Oh, these are the fruit that we grow in the North !

MACKAY.

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.

will say.

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