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Lástly, thoú engagest
That no one shall henceforth
Take me for a woman
Ór dwarfed, withered schoolboy.

Í, on my part, bind me
Every day to trộm theo,
Wásh, comb, oil and brúsh thee
And in order keep thee;

Álso tó my last gasp
Stoútly to defend thee
From the extérmináting
Bárber's soáp and rázor.

Só in strict alliance
We shall live together,
Shéltering and protecting
Until death each other.

Óf our sólemn treáty
This the protocol is.
Keep thou thị word, gry beard,
And I 'll trúly mine keep.




Hárk! 'tis the meditative hour
When the soul feels in all their power
Its áspirations heavenward rise
Dráwing it gently toward the skies
And high angelic colloquies.

Welcome! sweet hour of rest and calm,
That bring'st the wounded spirit balm,
That, mild as thine own pensive star,
Stillest the breast's intestine war,
And bídd'st the passions cease to jar.

Let nó unhallowed thought intrude
Upón my evening solitude,
When faith and hope with taper bright
Scattering the darkness of the night
Shed áll around extatic light,

Pointing to realms of bliss above,
Régions of innocence and love,
Where never breast shall heave a sigh,
Where never tear shall dim the eye,
Where nóne are born and none shall die;

Where spirits, that here lived in pain
Drágging their sordid earthly chain,
Ín - entering at the narrow door
Shall bathe in bliss for evermore
Upón a safe and stormless shore.


SÁTURDÁY clothed in plain drúgget
And with care and hard work wórn out,
Háppened once to meet her idle
Sister Sunday in her sátins:

“I'm so glad to meet you, síster,"
Saturdáy in húmble tóne said,
“Fór I know you 're ténderheárted
And will lend a hand to help me.

"From before daylight this morning
Í 've been washing úp and scrúbbing,
Brúshing, dústing, régulating,
Till I 've not a bóne but 's aching.

“Come, do put your hand to, sister;
Éxercise you know is wholesome
Ảnd a sovereign cúre for énnui
And you 're looking dúll and lánguid."

“Nothing would so much delight me,"
Ánswered Sunday with a símper,
“Ás in ány wáy ť oblige you,
Ór your heavy búrden lighten;

“Bút I need not tell you, sister,
Hów I máke 't a point of conscience
Tó live álways like a lády
Ảnd with no work soil my fingers.

“Ánd even wére I, which I am not,
óf mysélf inclined to lábor,
God's commandment is explícit:
seventh child shall dó no labor'."

“Gód's seventh child! why, that 's mysélf," said Saturdáy laying down her rúbber; “Whát a fool I've been to work so! Bút in future Í 'll be wiser.

“Hów came you so long to insist on 't 'Twas the first child wás exémpted, Ánd make your six younger sisters Wórk, to keep you like a lády?

“Nów you 've lét by chance the truth out,
Ít 's the seventh child is exémpted
Táke the scrúbber; on your kneés down;
Í 'll dress fine and pray and idle."

Yoú had once your túrn,” said Sunday,
“Thé seventh child once was exémpted,
And I worked just as you now do,
Í and your five élder sisters;

“Bút you grew so proud and saúcy
Heáven or earth could not endúre it,
Ánd your birthright was taken from you
Ánd bestowed upon your bétters."

“I remember wéll the robbery
And the liés to justify it;
Ánd how, not t expose the fámily,
Í put up with 't and said nothing.

“Í remember toó, my sisters,
When they advised me to keep quiet,
Prophesiéd you 'd soon grow proúder,
Saúcier fár than ever Í was.

“Lét her háve it,' óne and all cried; *Privilege was ever ódious; Lét her háve it, make the most of it; Cóme, dear Sáturday, with ús work.'

“I obeyed; you took my títle;
Called yourself God's Hóly Sábbath,
Dressed in sátin, práyed and idled,
Ảnd grew every dáy more saúcy,

“Móre hardheárted, vain and sélfish,
Móre intolerant, súpercílious,
Hypocrítical, overbearing,
Céremónious and religious,

“Till at lást the whole world hates you,
Fears you nó less than despises,
Cálls you in plain terms impostor,
Foúl usúrper of my birthright.”

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