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'Work! work! work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work-work-work,

Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's Oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

'Work-work-work

Till the brain begins to swim ;
Work-work-work

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,
And sew them on in a dream!

‘Oh, Men, with Sisters dear!

Oh, Men, with Mothers and Wives!
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!
Stitch-stitch-stitch,

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,
A Shroud as well as a Shirt.

'But why do I talk of Death?
That Phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

'Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread—and rags.

C

That shattered roof-and this naked floor-
A table-a broken chair-

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

'Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime, Work-work-work

As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

'Work-work-work,

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright

While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling
As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

'Oh! but to breathe the breath
Of the cowslip and primrose sweet-
With the sky above my head,
And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,

Before I knew the woes of want
And the walk that costs a meal!

'Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for Love or Hope,
But only time for Grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread!'

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A Woman sat in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-
Stitch stitch! stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,

And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,

Would that its tone could reach the Rich!
She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!'

T. Hood.

XI.

LESSONS FROM THE GORSE.

I.

OUNTAIN gorses, ever-golden,
Cankered not the whole year long!
Do ye teach us to be strong,

Howsoever pricked and holden

Like your thorny blooms, and so
Trodden on by rain and snow,

Up the hill-side of this life, as bleak as where ye grow?

II.

Mountain blossoms, shining blossoms,

Do ye teach us to be glad

When no summer can be had,

Blooming in our inward bosoms?

Ye, whom God preserveth still,
Set as lights upon a hill,

Tokens to the wintry earth that Beauty liveth still!

III.

Mountain gorses, do ye teach us

From that academic chair

Canopied with azure air,

That the wisest word man reaches

Is the humblest he can speak?

Ye, who live on mountain peak,

Yet live low along the ground, beside the grasses meek!

IV.

Mountain gorses, since Linnæus
Knelt beside you on the sod,
For your beauty thanking God,-
For your teaching ye should see us
Bowing in prostration new!

Whence arisen,-if one or two

Drops be on our cheeks-O world, they are not tears, but

dew.

E. B. Browning.

XII.

THE MAID OF NEIDPATH.

LOVERS' eyes are sharp to see,

And lovers' ears in hearing;
And love, in life's extremity,
Can lend an hour of cheering.
Disease had been in Mary's bower,
And slow decay from mourning,
Though now she sits on Neidpath's tower,
To watch her Love's returning.

All sunk and dim her eyes so bright,
Her form decayed by pining,
Till through her wasted hand, at night,
You saw the taper shining.

By fits a sultry hectic hue

Across her cheek was flying;

By fits so ashy pale she grew

Her maidens thought her dying.

Yet keenest powers to see and hear
Seemed in her frame residing;
Before the watch-dog pricked his ear
She heard her lover's riding;

Ere scarce a distant form was kenned

She knew, and waved to greet him,
And o'er the battlement did bend

As on the wing to meet him.

He came he passed—a heedless gaze
As o'er some stranger glancing ;
Her welcome, spoke in faltering phrase,
Lost in his courser's prancing-
The castle-arch, whose hollow tone
Returns each whisper spoken,

Could scarcely catch the feeble moan
Which told her heart was broken.

XIII.

W. Scott.

THE SKYLARK.

IRD of the wilderness,

Blythsome and cumberless,

Sweet be thy matin o'er moorland and lea !
Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

O to abide in the desert with thee!
Wild is thy lay and loud

Far in the downy cloud,

Love gives it energy, love gave it birth.
Where, on thy dewy wing,

Where art thou journeying?

Thy lay is in heaven, thy love is on earth.
O'er fell and fountain sheen,

O'er moor and mountain green,

O'er the red streamer that heralds the day,
Over the cloudlet dim,

Over the rainbow's rim,

Musical cherub, soar, singing, away!

Then, when the gloaming comes,

Low in the heather blooms

Sweet will thy welcome and bed of love be! Emblem of happiness,

Blest is thy dwelling-place

O to abide in the desert with thee!

7. Hogg.

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