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sun, and corn rustling in the breezes of heaven, whisper of plenty and domestic joy? What raised first the hut, and then the cottage, and then the palace? What filled all these with food and furniture-with food simple and also costly; with furniture of infinite variety, from the three-legged stool to the most magnificent cabinet and the regal throne? What made glass, and dyed it with all the hues of rainbows or of summer sunsets? What constructed presses, and books, and filled up the walls of libraries, every inch of which contained a mass of latent light hoarded for the use of ages? What took the hint from the split walnut-shell which some boy floated on the brook, and set on the flood first the boat, and then the ship, and has scattered these glorious children of man, the water-walking ships, over all the oceans of the world, and filled them with the produce of all lands, and the machinery and steam of profoundest inventions? What has made the wide sea like a great city street, where merchants are going to and fro full of eager thoughts of self-accumulation, but not the less full of international blessings? What has made the land like one great garden, laid down its roads that run like veins to every portion of the system of life, cut its canals, cast up its lines of railways, and driven along them, in fire and vapor, the awful but beneficial dragons of modern enterprise? What has piled up all our cities with their glittering and exhaustless wealth, their splendid utensils, their paintings, their mechanic wonders, all serving domestic life, and its beloved fireside delights. Labor! labor! labor! It is labor, and your labor, men of the multitude, that has done it all!

True, the wise ones tell us that it is intellect that has done it. And all honor to intellect! It is not I nor you, fellow-workers, who will attempt to rob the royal power of intellect of one iota of his renown. Intellect is also a glorious gift of the Divinitya divine principle in the earth. We set intellect at the head of labor, and bid it lead the way to all wonders and discoveries; but we know that intellect cannot go alone. Intellect cannot separate itself from labor. Intellect has also its labor; and in its most abstract and ethereal form cannot develop itself without the co-operation of its twin-brother labor. When intellect exerts itself when it thinks, and invents, and discovers-it then labors. Through the medium of labor it does all that it does; and upon labor it is perfectly dependent to carry out all its mechanical operations. Intellect is the head-labor the right-hand. Take away the hand, and the head is a magazine of knowledge and fire that is sealed up in eternal darkness. Such are the relationship of labor and intellect,


MARY HOWITT, the wife of William Howitt, whom, in the dedication of one of her volumes, she styles "My best Counsellor and Teacher; my Literary Associate for a quarter of a century; my Husband and my Friend," ranks second to none among the fair poets of England. She early evinced a strong passion for poetry, which was fed by the reading of old English ballads, and such books as "Percy's Reliques," in which she delighted. In 1823, a few years after their union, her husband and herself published jointly two volumes of poems; and "then," she herself says, “giving vent to my own peculiar fancies, I again took to writing ballads, which were published in various periodicals of the day, and the favorable reception they met with gave me the greatest encouragement."

Mary Howitt eminently deserves the distinction of being the poetess of the young, the humble, and the poor. She has a heart that can feel for the wants and woes and trials of humanity in its humblest and most despised walks, and she pours out her soul in strains of touching, sympathetic tenderness that melt the heart, and draw tears from the eyes. Childhood has for her an inexpressible charm; and a reminiscence of that period takes precedence of everything besides; and for the children of the poor she pleads with equal earnestness and pathos. Equally fine is her sympathy with lowliness. Anything that is humble, or dependent, or patient, or uncomplaining, or enduring, has a charm which attracts the whole intellect and heart of Mrs. Howitt at once.

Though Mrs. Howitt excels in various styles, it is clear that her ballads are her masterpieces, and nothing can exceed the simple, plaintive tenderness, the unaffected, overpowering pathos of these beautiful compositions.

"In summing up my imperfect estimate of Mary Howitt, I would say that no female poet in our literature surpasses her, and that but few equal her. As a versifier, as a moralist, and as a philosopher, she may safely challenge comparison with any writer of her own sex, and with most of the writers of the other sex: whilst as regards grace, pathos, womanly senti. ment, and Christian sympathy, she has scarcely 'a rival near her throne.' I believe that her writings have done more to elevate our idea of woman's intellectual character than all the treatises on that subject in our language: I believe, further, that her works tend most powerfully to ameliorate, exalt, and purify the heart of the world; and I believe, finally, that she is the truest representative we have among our poets of that fervent, practical, beautiful Christianity which was prophesied in the song of the angels at Bethlehem-PEACE ON EARTH AND GOODWILL AMONG MEN. Mrs. Howitt is indeed a writer of whom England may be, and will be eternally proud."

"Rowton's Female Poets of Great Britain."


Oh! poverty is a weary thing; 'tis full of grief and pain ;
It boweth down the heart of man, and dulls his cunning brain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.

The children of the rich man have not their bread to win;
They scarcely know how labor is the penalty of sin;
Even as the lilies of the field, they neither toil nor spin.

And year by year, as life wears on, no wants have they to bear;
In all the luxury of the earth they have abundant share;
They walk along life's pleasant ways, where all is rich and fair.

The children of the poor man, though they be young each one,
Must rise betime each morning, before the rising sun;
And scarcely when the sun is set their daily task is done.

Few things have they to call their own, to fill their hearts with pride,
The sunshine and the summer flowers upon the highway side,
And their own free companionship on heathy commons wide.
Hunger, and cold, and weariness, these are a frightful three;
But another curse there is beside, that darkens poverty,
It may not have one thing to love, how small soe'er it be.

A thousand flocks were on the hills, a thousand flocks and more,
Feeding in sunshine pleasantly; they were the rich man's store:
There was the while one little lamb beside a cottage door;

A little lamb that rested with the children 'neath the tree,

That ate, meek creature, from their hands, and nestled to their knee; That had a place within their hearts, one of the family.

But want, even as an armed man, came down upon their shed;
The father labored all day long that his children might be fed,
And, one by one, their household things were sold to buy them bread.

That father, with a downcast eye, upon his threshold stood,
Gaunt poverty each pleasant thought had in his heart subdued.
"What is the creature's life to us?" said he: "'twill buy us food.

"Ay, though the children weep all day, and with down-drooping head Each does his small task mournfully, the hungry must be fed; And that which has a price to bring must go to buy us bread."

It went. Oh! parting has a pang the hardest heart to wring;
But the tender soul of a little child with fervent love doth cling,
With love that hath no feignings false, unto each gentle thing.

Therefore most sorrowful it was those children small to see, Most sorrowful to hear them plead for the lamb so piteously: "Oh! mother dear, it loveth us; and what beside have we?"

"Let's take him to the broad green hill!" in his impotent despair Said one strong boy: "let's take him off, the hills are wide and fair; I know a little hiding-place, and we will keep him there."

Oh vain! They took the little lamb, and straightway tied him down, With a strong cord they tied him fast; and o'er the common brown, And o'er the hot and flinty roads, they took him to the town.

The little children through that day, and throughout all the morrow, From everything about the house a mournful thought did borrow; The very bread they had to eat was food unto their sorrow.

Oh! poverty is a weary thing; 'tis full of grief and pain;
It keepeth down the soul of man as with an iron chain;
It maketh even the little child with heavy sighs complain.


Dwellers by lake and hill,
Merry companions of the bird and bee,
Go gladly forth and drink of joy your fill,
With unconstrained step and spirit free.

No crowd impedes your way,

No city wall proscribes your further bounds;

Where the wild flocks can wander, ye may stray
The long day through, 'mid summer sights and sounds.

The sunshine and the flowers,

And the old trees that cast a solemn shade;

The pleasant evening, the fresh dewy hours,
And the green hills whereon your fathers played;

The gray and ancient peaks,

Round which the silent clouds hang day and night;
And the low voice of water, as it makes,
Like a glad creature, murmurings of delight:

These are your joys. Go forth,

Give your hearts up unto their mighty power;
For in his spirit God has clothed the earth,
And speaks in love from every tree and flower.

The voice of hidden rills

Its quiet way into your spirit finds;

And awfully the everlasting hills
Address you in their many-toned winds.

Ye sit upon the earth

Twining its flowers, and shouting, full of glee;
And a pure mighty influence, 'mid your mirth,
Moulds your unconscious spirits silently.

Hence is it that the lands

Of storm and mountain have the noblest sons;
Whom the world reverences, the patriot bands,
Were of the hills like you, ye little ones!

Children of pleasant song

Are taught within the mountain solitudes;
For hoary legends to your wilds belong,
And yours are haunts where inspiration broods.

Then go forth: earth and sky
To you are tributary; joys are spread

Profusely, like the summer flowers that lie
In the green path, beneath your gamesome tread.


"Will you walk into my parlor ?" said the spider to the fly,
""Tis the prettiest little parlor that ever you did spy;
The way into my parlor is up a winding stair,

And I've got many curious things to show when you are there."
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "to ask me is in vain-
For who goes up your winding stair can ne'er come down again."

"I'm sure you must be weary, dear, with soaring up so high; Will you rest upon my little bed?" said the spider to the fly: "There are pretty curtains drawn around; the sheets are fine and thin, And if you like to rest a while, I'll snugly tuck you in!" "Oh no, no," said the little fly, "for I've often heard it said, They never, never wake again, who sleep upon your bed!"

Said the cunning spider to the fly-"Dear friend, what can I do
To prove the warm affection I've always felt for you?
I have within my pantry good store of all that's nice;
I'm sure you're very welcome-will you please to take a slice?"
"Oh no, no," said the little fly; "kind sir, that cannot be;
I've heard what's in your pantry, and I do not wish to see."

"Sweet creature," said the spider, "you're witty and you're wise; How handsome are your gauzy wings, how brilliant are your eyes! I have a little looking-glass upon my parlor shelf;

If you'll step in one moment, dear, you shall behold yourself." "I thank you, gentle sir," she said, "for what you please to say, And, bidding you good morning now, I'll call another day."

The spider turned him round about, and went into his den,
For well he knew the silly fly would soon come back again;
So he wove a subtle web in a little corner sly,

And set his table ready to dine upon the fly.

Then he came out to his door again, and merrily did sing
"Come hither, hither, pretty fly, with the pearl and silver wing;
Your robes are green and purple-there's a crest upon your head;
Your eyes are like the diamond bright, but mine are dull as lead!"

Alas! alas! how very soon this silly little fly,

Hearing his wily flattering words, came slowly flitting by;
With buzzing wings she hung aloft, then near and nearer drew,
Thinking only of her brilliant eyes, and her green and purple hue-

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