Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great! what better they than thou?
As theirs, is not thy will 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.

XVIII.

LABOR IS WORSHIP.

FRANCES S. OSGOOD.

PAUSE not to dream of the future before us;

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;

LABOR IS WORSHIP.

Never the little seed stops in its growing,

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More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!" the robin is singing;
"Labor is worship!" the wild bee is ringing;
Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, ever shrinks from his part.

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, or the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory! The flying cloud lightens;
Only the waving wing changes and brightens;
Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys wouldst thou keep them in

tune.

Labor is rest

from the sorrows that greet us,

Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,

Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world sirens that lure us to ill.

Work, and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow;
Work,- thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow;
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping willow;
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping,
How through his veins goes the life-current leaping!
How his strong arm, in its stalwart pride sweeping,
True as a sunbeam the swift sickle guides.
Labor is wealth! In the sea the pearl groweth ;
Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ;
From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth;

Temple and statue the marble block hides.

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round

thee;

Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound

thee;

a clod.

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;
Rest not content in thy darkness,
Work for some good be it ever so slowly;
Cherish some flower be it ever so lowly;
Labor! all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deed be thy prayer to thy God.

XIX.

MARMION AND DOUGLAS.

SIR WALTER SCOTT.

Nor far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride;

He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide.
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered in an undertone,

his prey is flown."

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The train from out the castle drew,

But Marmion stopped to bid adieu :

"Though something I might 'plain," he said,

"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest,

While in Tantallon's towers I staid,
Part we in friendship from your land,
And, noble Earl, receive my hand."
But Douglas round him drew his cloak,
Folded his arms and thus he spoke :
"My manors, halls, and bowers shall still
Be open at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer;
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation stone,
The hand of Douglas is his own,
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."

Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire

And shook his very frame for ire,

And, "This to me!" he said,

"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hands as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty peer,
He who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate!
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
E'en in thy pitch of pride,

Here, in thy hold, thy vassals near,
[Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,]
I tell thee thou'rt defied!

And if thou saidst I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,

Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:

Fierce he broke forth, "And dar'st thou, then,

To beard the lion in his den,

The Douglas in his hall?

And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go?

No, by St. Bride of Bothwell, no!

Up drawbridge, grooms! — what, warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall."

Lord Marmion turned, — well was his need!

And dashed the rowels in his steed,

Like arrow through the archway sprung;
The ponderous grate behind him rung: