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The rich and poor, on land and sea, -
A hundred years to come?
We all within our graves shall sleep,
A hundred years to come;
A hundred years to come.
WILLIAM GOLDSMITI Brown.
The Song of Steam.
Harness me down with your iron bands,
Be sure of your curb and rein,
As the tempest scorns a chain,
For many a countless hour,
And the pride of human power.
A navy upon the
When I saw an army upon the land,
seas, Creeping along, a snail-like band,
Or waiting the wayward breeze, When I marked the peasant faintly reel
With the toil which he daily bore, As he feebly turned the tardy wheel,
Or tugged at the weary oar,
When I measured the panting courser's speed,
The flight of the carrier dove,
THE SONG OF STEAM.
As they bore the law a king decreed,
Or the lines of impatient love,
As these were outstripped afar,
Or chained to the flying car.
Ha, ha, ha! They found me at last,
They invited me forth at length,
And laughed in my iron strength!
On the earth and the ocean wide,
Nor wait for wind or tide.
The ocean pales where'er I sweep,
To hear my strength rejoice,
Cower trembling at my voice.
The thoughts of his godlike mind;
The lightning is left behind.
In the darksome depths of the fathomless mine,
My tireless arm doth play ;
Or the dawn of a glorious day;
From the hidden caves below,
With a crystal gush o'erflow.
I blow the bellows, I forge the steel,
In all the shops of trade;
Where my arms of strength are made.
I manage the furnace, the mill, the mint,
I carry, I spin, I weave;
On every Saturday eve.
I 've no muscle to weary, no brains to decay,
No bones to be "laid on the shelf,"
While I manage the world myself.
Be sure of your curb and rein,
GEORGE W. CUTTER.
Tuhy thus Longing ?
Why thus longing, thus forever sighing,
For the far-off, unattained and dim, While the beautiful, all round thee lying,
Offers up its low, perpetual hymn?
Wouldst thou listen to its gentle teaching,
All thy restless yearnings it would still; Leaf and flower and laden bee are preaching
Thine own sphere, though humble, first to fill.
Poor indeed thou must be, if around thee
Thou no ray of light and joy canst throwIf no silken cord of love hath bound thee
To some little world through weal and woe;
If no dear eyes thy fond love can brighten
No fond voices answer to thine own; If no brother's sorrow thou canst lighten,
By daily sympathy and gentle tone.
NOTHING TO WEAR.
Not by deeds that win the crowd's applauses,
Not by works that give thee world-renown, Not by martyrdom or vaunted crosses,
Canst thou win and wear the immortal crown.
Daily struggling, though unloved and lonely,
Every day a rich reward will give; Thou wilt find, by hearty striving only,
And truly loving, thou canst truly live.
Dost thou revel in the rosy morning,
When all nature hails the lord of light, And his smile, the mountain-tops adorning,
Robes yon fragrant fields in radiance bright?
Other hands may grasp the field and forest,
Proud proprietors in pomp may shine; But with fervent love if thou adorest,
Thou art wealthier-all the world is thine.
Yet if through earth's wide domains thou rovest,
Sighing that they are not thine alone,
And their beauty and thy wealth are gone.
Nature wears the color of the spirit;
Sweetly to her worshiper she sings;
HARRIET WINSLOW SEWALL.
Nothing to dear.
Miss FLORA M'FLIMSEY, of Madison Square,
(Not the lady whose name is so famous in history,
From ten-thousand-franc robes to twenty-sous frills;
They footed the streets, and he footed the bills!
The last trip, their goods shipped by the steamer Argo,