Work away!

For the Leader's eye is on us,
Never off us, still upon us,

Night and day!

Wild the trackless prairies round us,
Dark and unsunned woods surround us,
Steep and savage mountains bound us;
Far away

Smile the soft savannahs green,
Rivers sweep and roll between:
Work away!

Bring your axes, woodmen true;
Smite the forests 'till the blue

Of heaven's sunny eye looks through
Every wild and tangled glade;
Jungle, swamp, and thicket shade,
Give to day!

O'er the torrents fling your bridges,
Pioneers! Upon the ridges

Widen, smooth the rocky stair-
They that follow far behind,

Night and day!
Work and pray!

Pray! and work will be completer;
Work! and prayer will be the sweeter;
Love! and prayer and work the fleeter
Will ascend upon their way!

Fear not, lest the busy finger
Weave a net the soul to stay;
Give her wings-she will not linger,
Soaring to the source of day;
Cleaving clouds that still divide us
From the azure depths of rest,
She will come again! beside us,
With the sunshine on her breast,
Sit and sing to us, while quickest
On their task the fingers move,
While the outward din wars thickest,
Songs that she hath learned above.

Live in future as in present;
Work for both while yet the day
Is our own! for lord and peasant,
Loud and bright as summer's day,
Cometh, yet more sure, more pleasant,
Cometh soon our holiday,

Work away!

THE SOLITARY REAPER.

BEHOLD her, single in the field,
Yon solitary Highland lass!
Reaping and singing by herself;
Stop here, or gently pass!
Alone she cuts and binds the grain,
And sings a melancholy strain;
O listen! for the vale profound
Is overflowing with the sound.

No nightingale did ever chant
More welcome notes to weary bands
Of travellers in some shady haunt,
Among Arabian sands:

A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard
In spring-time from the cuckoo-bird,
Breaking the silence of the seas
Among the farthest Hebrides.

Will no one tell me what she sings ?—
Perhaps the plaintive numbers flow
For old, unhappy, far-off things,
And battles long ago:

Or is it some more humble lay,
Familiar matter of to-day?

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain,

That has been, and may be again!

Whate'er the theme, the maiden sang
As if her song could have no ending;
I saw her singing at her work,
And o'er the sickle bending;-
I listened, motionless and still;
And, as I mounted up the hill,
The music in my heart I bore,
Long after it was heard no more.

ON LENDING A PUNCH-BOWL.

THIS ancient silver bowl of mine, it tells of good old times,

Of joyous days, and jolly nights, and merry Christmas

chimes;

They were a free and jovial race, but honest, brave and

true

That dipped their ladle in the punch, when this old bowl was new.

A Spanish galleon brought the bar,-so runs the ancient tale,

'Twas hammered by an Antwerp smith, whose arm was like a flail;

And now and then between the strokes, for fear his

strength should fail,

He wiped his brow, and quaffed a cup of good old Flemish ale.

'Twas purchased by an English squire, to please his loving dame,

Who saw the cherubs, and conceived a longing for the

same;

And oft, as on the ancient stock, another twig was

found,

'Twas filled with caudle, spiced and hot, and handed smoking round.

But changing hands, it reached at. length a puritan divine

Who used to follow Timothy, and take a little wine, But hated punch and prelacy; and so it was, per

haps,

He went to Leyden where he found conventicles and schnaps.

And then, of course you know what's next,-it left the Dutchman's shore,

With those that in the Mayflower came,-a hundred souls and more,—

Along with all the furniture to fill their new abodes,To judge by what is still on hand, at least a hundred loads.

'Twas on a dreary winter's eve, the night was closing

dim,

When old Miles Standish took the bowl and filled it to

the brim;