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For, I away, how oft in this rough world
That earnest question will be ask’d in vain'
How oft that eager, passionate, petted heart
Will shrink abash'd and chill'd, to learn at length
The hateful, withering lesson of distrust .
Ah let her nestle still upon this breast,
In which each shade that dims her darling face
Is felt and answer'd, as the lake reflects
The clouds that cross yon smiling heaven' And thou
My modest Ellen,_tender, thoughtful, true;
Thy soul attuned to all sweet harmonies:
My pure, proud, noble Ellen with thy gifts
Of genius, grace, and loveliness, half hidden
'Neath the soft veil of innate modesty,+
How will the world's wild discord reach thy heart
To startle and appall ! Thy generous scorn
Of all things base and mean,—thy quick, keen taste,
Dainty and delicate, thy instinctive fear
Of those unworthy of a soul so pure,
Thy rare, unchildlike dignity of mien,
All—they will all bring pain to thee, my child !
And oh, if even their grace and goodness meet
Cold looks and careless greetings, how will all
The latent evil yet undisciplined
In their young, timid souls, forgiveness find 2
Forgiveness, and forbearance, and soft chidings,
Which I, their mother, learn'd of Love to give :
Ah, let me stay —albeit my heart is weary,
Weary and worn, tired of its own sad beat,
That finds no echo in this busy world,
Which cannot pause to answer, tired alike
Of joy and sorrow, of the day and night,
Ah, take them first, my Father, and then me !
And for their sakes, for their sweet sakes, my Father,
Let me find rest beside them, at thy fect

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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:
Never the little seed stops in its growing;
More and more richly the Roseheart 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, shrinks from his part.

Labor is life!—'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;
Keep the watch wound, for 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 his 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!
Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee!
Rest not content in thy darkness, a clods
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 deeds be thy prayer to thy God.

WILLIAM H. BURLEIGH.

William HENRY Burleigh was born in Woodstock, Connecticut, on the 2d of February, 1812. In his infancy his parents removed to Plainfield, where his father was principal of an academy until from loss of sight he was compelled to resign his charge. He then retired to a farm, so that the son passed the principal years of his boyhood in agricultural labors, with no other means of education than those which a district school afforded, till he reached his seventeenth year, when he was apprenticed to the printing-business. Since that period, his life has been singularly varied, his time having been divided between the duties of a printer and editor, and a public lecturer. He conducted at one time “The Literary Journal,” published at Schenectady. Afterwards, for more than two wears, he edited “The Christian Witness,” at Pittsburg, Pennsylvania, and resigned it to take charge of “The Washington Banner,” published at Alleghany, opposite to Pittsburg. A volume of his poems appeared in Philadelphia in 1840.

THE TIMES.

Inaction now is crime. The old earth reels
Inebriate with guilt; and Vice, grown bold,
Laughs Innocence to scorn. The thirst for gold
Hath made men demons, till the heart that feels
The impulse of impartial love, nor kneels
In worship foul to Mammon, is contemn'd.
He who hath kept his purer faith, and stemm'd
Corruption's tide, and from the ruffian heels
Of impious tramplers rescued perill'd right,
Is call’d fanatic, and with scoffs and jeers
Maliciously assail'd. The poor man's tears
Are unregarded; the oppressor's might
Revered as law; and he whose righteous way
Departs from evil, makes himself a prey.

The PILGIRIM FATHERS.

Bold men were they, and true, that pilgrim band,
Who plough’d with venturous prow the stormy sea,
Seeking a home for hunted Liberty
Amid the ancient forests of a land
Wild, gloomy, vast, magnificently grand
Friends, country, hallow’d homes they left, to oe
Pilgrims for CHRIST's sake, to a foreign strand,-
Beset by peril, worn with toil, yet free!
Tireless in zeal, devotion, labor, hope;
Constant in faith; in justice how severe !
Though fools deride and bigot-skeptics sneer,
Praise to their names | If call'd like them to cope,
In evil times, with dark and evil powers,
Oh, be their faith, their zeal, their courage, ours!

JUNE.

June, with its roses, June !
The gladdest month of our capricious year,
With its thick foliage and its sunlight clear;
And with the drowsy tune
Of the bright leaping waters, as they pass
Laughingly on amid the springing grass'

Earth, at her joyous coming,
Smiles as she puts her gayest mantle on ;
And Nature greets her with a benison;

While myriad voices, humming
Their welcome song, breathe dreamy music round
Till seems the air an element of sound.

The overarching sky
Weareth a softer tint, a lovelier blue,
As if the light of heaven were melting through

Its sapphire home on high;
Hiding the sunshine in their vapory breast,
The clouds float on like spirits to their rest.

A deeper melody,
Pour’d by the birds, as o'er their callow young
Watchful they hover, to the breeze is flung–

Gladsome, yet not of glee—
Music heart-born, like that which mothers sing
Above their cradled infants slumbering.

On the warm hill-side, where
The sunlight lingers latest, through the grass
Peepeth the luscious strawberry . As they pass,

Young children gambol there,
Crushing the gather'd fruit in playful mood,
And staining their bright faces with its blood.

A deeper blush is given
To the half-ripen'd cherry, as the sun
Day after day pours warmth the trees upon,

Till the rich pulp is riven;
The truant schoolboy looks with longing eyes,
And perils limb and neck to win the prize.

The farmer, in his field,
Draws the rich mould around the tender maize:
While hope, bright-pinion'd, points to coming days,

When all his toil shall yield
An ample harvest, and around his hearth
There shall be laughing eyes and tones of mirth.

Poised on his rainbow-wing,
The butterfly, whose life is but an hour,
Hovers coquettishly from flower to flower,

A gay and happy thing; -
Born for the sunshine and the summer-day,
Soon passing, like the beautiful, away .

These are thy pictures, June !
Brightest of summer-months, thou month of flowers :
First-born of beauty, whose swift-footed hours

Dance to the merry tune
Of birds, and waters, and the pleasant shout
Of childhood on the sunny hills peal’d out.

I feel it were not wrong
To deem thou art a type of heaven's clime,
Only that there the clouds and storms of time

Sweep not the sky along;
The flowers—air—beauty—music—all are thine,
But brighter—purer—lovelier—more divine !

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.

IIARRIEt Elizabeth BEEcher, daughter of Rev. Lyman Beecher, D.D., was born at Litchfield, Connecticut, on the 14th of June, 1812. She was educated at her sister Catharine's school in Hartford, and in the autumn of 1832 removed with her father to Cincinnati, Ohio. Her first publication was the story of Uncle Lot, printed with a different title in Judge Hall's “Monthly Magazine,” at Cincinnati, in 1833; in which year also she was married to Rev. Calvin E. Stowe, at that time Professor of Languages and Biblical Literature in Lane Theological Seminary. During her residence in Cincinnati, she became deeply interested in the question of slavery, from seeing many fugitives from the Slave States and hearing from them their tales of suffering. From the date of her first publication, she became a frequent and popular writer in the various periodicals in Cincinnati, Philadelphia, New York, and Boston. In 1849, a collection of her pieces was published by the Harpers, entitled The May Flower, which was much enlarged in a new edition published in 1855,-a collection of tales and essays hardly equalled for ease and naturalness of description, touching narrative, and elevating moral tone.

In 1850, Professor Stowe was called to Brunswick College, Maine, and removed thither with his family. The passage of the Fugitive Slave Bill in that year excited Mrs. Stowe to write Uncle Tom's Cabin, or Life among the Lowly, which she wrote with almost miraculous rapidity, under a constant pressure of school and family cares, and frail health, enough of themselves to tax the most vigorous intellect to its utmost. This was published in numbers every week, in the “National Era," at Washington; and in 1852 it appeared in book-form from the press of John P. Jewett & Co., of Boston. Its success was wonderful, such as no other book has ever met with." And richly did it deserve it; for, independent of its being one of the most powerful blows ever aimed at slavery, as well as of its high and pure tone of Christian morality, and its truthfulness throughout to God and humanity, it exhibits such a knowledge of human nature, such powers of description, such heart-stirring pathos, and such richness and beauty of thought and language, as to make it the most remarkable book published in our country.

In 1852, Professor Stowe was called to the chair of Biblical Literature in An

1 “By the end of November, 1852, 150,000 copies had been sold in America; and in September of that year the London publishers furnished to one house 10,000 copies per day for about four weeks. We cannot follow it beyond 1852, but at that time more than a million of copies had been sold in England,-probably ten times as many as have been sold of any other work, except the Bible and Prayer-Book. In France, Uncle Tom still covers the shop-windows of the IBoulevards, and one publisher alone, Eustace Basba, has sent out five different editions in different forms. Before the end of 1852 it had been translated into Italian, Spanish, Danish, Swedish, Dutch, Flemish, German, Polish, and Magyar. There are two different Dutch translations, and twelve different German ones; and the Italian translation enjoys the honor of the Pope's prohibition. It has been dramatized in twenty different forms, and acted in every capital in Europe and in the free States of America.”—Edinburgh Review, April, 1833.

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