Anon permit the basest clouds to ride
With ugly rack on his celestial face,
And from the forlorn world his visage hide,
Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace :
Even so my sun one early morn did shine,
With all-triumphant splendour on my brow;
But out, alack! he was but one hour mine,
The region cloud hath mask'd him from me now.
Yet him for this my love nowise disdaineth;
Suns of the world may stain when heaven's sun
staineth.

-Sonnets.

W. SHAKSPEARE, 1564-1616.

WORK AWAY!

YE toil'd ones who sigh for the down and the roses, While ye march to the beat of the drum,

And deem that, when life's measured drudgery closes. A long taskless Sabbath shall come;

I tell ye, in vain

Ye sigh and complain,

The disease and the cure are both whims of the brain :
All things by deep labour are stirr'd;

Work away! work away! work away!
So cries the American bird.

The flower-bulb may rest when dull Winter it beareth,

But when Spring comes, and bright sunny sheen, When the many-hued flower, and ripe fruit it prepareth,

It toils then unceasing, I ween.

For no rest Nature knows,

Where the heart warm glows,

And in mystical current the strong tide flows;
With our labour our life is interr'd-
Work away! work away! work away!
So cries the American bird.

In vain would ye break, with a fretful revulsion,
The force that subdues soul to soul;
Each power on the other a kindly compulsion
Imposes, to perfect the whole.

In his march old Time,

If you will not climb,

Will leave you to gather the fruit of your crime;
Whoso will not spur must be spurr'd—
Work away! work away! work away!
So cries the American bird.

Leave ease to the idols of old Epicurus;

Through danger, and doubt, and delay,

To the word of the truth with strong faith we will moor

us,

And work while 'tis called to-day;

For God no repose

In the wide world knows,

But working and wearing His wise spirit goes,
And the voice of His preaching is heard,
Work away! work away! work away!
In the warning American bird.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE, 1810—

LOOK UP!

"Look up!" cried the seaman, with nerves like steel,

As skyward his glance he cast,

And beheld his own son grow giddy, and reel

On the point of the tapering mast.

Look up! and the bold boy lifted his face,

And banish'd his brief alarms,

Slid down at once from his perilous place,
And leapt in his father's arms.

Look up! we cry to the sorely oppress'd,
Who seem from all comfort shut,

You had better look up to the mountain crest,
Than down to the precipice foot.

The one offers heights ye may hope to gain,
Pure ether, and freedom, and room;

The other bewilders the aching brain
With roughness, and danger, and gloom.

Look up! meek soul, by affliction bent,
Nor dally with dull despair,

Look up, and with faith, to the firmament,
For Heaven and mercy are there.
The frail flower droops in the stormy shower,
And the shadows of needful night,
But it looks to the sun in the after hour,
And takes full measure of light.

Look up! sad man, by adversity brought
From high unto low estate;

Play not with the bane of corrosive thought,
Nor murmur at chance and fate.

Renew thy hopes; look the world in the face, For it helps not those who repine;

Press on, and its cheer will amend thy pace; Succeed, and its homage is thine.

Look up! great crowd, who are foremost set In the changeful battle of life;

Some days of calm may reward ye yet

For years of allotted strife.

Look up, and beyond, there's a guerdon there

For the humble and pure of heart,

Fruition of joys unalloy'd by care,
Of peace that can never depart.

Look up, large spirit, by Heaven inspired,
Thou rare and expansive soul!

Look up, with endeavour and zeal untired,

And strive for the loftiest goal;

Advance, and encourage the kindred throng,
Who toil up the slopes behind,

To follow, and hail with triumphant song
The holier regions of mind!

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE, 1808

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

HIGH hopes that burn'd like Stars sublime,
Go down i' the Heavens of Freedom!
And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say,

There's nothing left but sorrow: We walk the Wilderness To-day,

The Promised Land To-morrow.

Our birds of song are silent now,

There are no flowers blooming! Yet life stirs in the frozen bough,

And Freedom's Spring is coming! And Freedom's tide comes up alway, Though we may strand in sorrow: And our good bark, aground To-day, Shall float again To-morrow.