THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS. THIS is the ship of pear!, which poets feign, Sails the unshadow'd main,—

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings
In gulfs enchanted where the Siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare.

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their stream ing hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;

Wreck'd is the ship of pearl!

And every chamber'd cell,

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies reveal'd,—

Its iris'd ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unseal'd!

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still, as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretch'd in his last-found home, and knew the old

no more.

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap, forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is born

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!
While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul,

As the swift seasons roll!

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thy outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!
OLIVER Wendell Holmes.

THE LABOURER,

STAND up-erect! Thou hast the form,
And likeness of thy God!--who more?

A soul as dauntless mid the storm

Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man

As moves the human mass among;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy? the high

In station, or in wealth the chief? The great, who coldly pass thee by, With proud step and averted eye? Nay! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee?

A feather, which thou mightest cast

Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No:-uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,
Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires
Forever, till thus check'd;

These are thine enemies-thy worst ;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:

Thy labour and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect! and from them burst!
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!—what better they than thou?

As theirs, is not thy will as free?

Has God with equal favors thee
Neglected to endow ?

True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust!
Nor place uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust
And water, may despise the lust

Of both-a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,

True faith, and holy trust in God,
Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up, then that thy little span
Of life may be well trod !

WILLIAM D. GALLAGHER.

HOLIDAY HOME.

WHEN the Autumn winds nip all the hill-grasses brown,

And sad the last breath of the Summer in town, When the waves have a chill, with a spicing of

salt,

Then I slip the dull burdens of Duty's employNew London, New London, New London ahoy!

There the latch-string is out, there's a hand at the door,

There are kindliest faces so kindly before

Ah, the song takes a lilt, and the words trip with

joy,

For New London, New London, New London ahoy!

When the Winter lies white on the roofs of the

town,

A sound's in my heart that no storm-wind can

drown;

Through the mist and the rain, and the sleet and the snow,

My memory murmurs a melody low,

Like the swing of a song through the brain of a

boy

New London, New London, New London ahoy!

H. C. BUNNER.

OLD FOLKS AT HOME,

WAY down upon de Swanee ribber,

Far, far away

Dere's wha my heart is turning ebber,
Dere's wha de old folks stay.

All up and down de whole creation,
Sadly I roam,

Still longing for de old plantation,
And for de old folks at home.

All de world am sad and dreary,

Ebry where I roam.

Oh! darkeys, how my heart grows weary,
Far from de old folks at home.

All round de little farm I wander'd,

When I was young;

Den many happy days I squander'd,
Many de songs I sung.

When I was playing wid my brudder,
Happy was I,

Oh! take me to my kind old mudder,
Dere let me live and die.