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NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK.

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Go on! go on! no guerdon seek

For thy reward ;
But while heroic, be thou meek,
And from thy heart, and from thy cheek,
Be pride debarred :

Go on!
Go on! go on! thy Master's ear

And constant eye
Observe each groan-each struggling tear :
He, 'midst the shadows dark and drear,
Is standing by~

Go on!
Go on! go on! thy onward way

Leads up to light:
The morning now begins to grey ;
Anon the cheering beams of day
Shall chase the night :

Go on!
Go on! go on! oh, doubt it never-

This strife with wrong
Is fated not to last for ever,
But if we boldly make endeavour,
Will cease ere long !

Go on!
J. BAXTER LANGLEY,

XXVI. NO WORK THE HARDEST WORK. “ MANUAL labour is a blessing and a dignity. But to state the case on its least favourable issue, admit it were both a disgrace and a curse, would a true man desire to escape it for himself and leave the curse to fall on other men? Certainly not. The generous soldier fronts death, and charges in the cannon's mouth; it is a coward who lingers behind. If labour were hateful, as the proud would have us believe, then they who bear its burthens, and feed and clothe the human race, and fetch and carry for them, should be honoured as those have always been who defend society in war. If it be glorious, as the world fancies, to repel a human foe, how much more is he to be honoured who stands up when want comes upon us, like an armed man, and puts him to rout! One would fancy the world was mad when it bowed in reverence to those who, by superior cunning, possessed thomselves of the earnings of others, while it made wide the mouth and drew out the tongue at such as do the world's work. Without these,' said an ancient, cannot a city be inhabited, but they shall not be sought for in public council, nor sit high in the congregation; and those few men and women who are misnamed the world, in their wisdom have confirmed the saying. Thus they honour

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those who sit in idleness and ease; they extol such as defend a state with arms, or those who collect in their hands the result of Asiatic or American industry, but pass by with contempt the men who rear corn and cattle, and weave and spin, and fish and build for the whole human race.

Yet if the state of labour were so hard and disgraceful as some fancy, the sluggard in fine raiment and that trim figure, which, like the lilies in the Scripture, neither toils nor spins, and yet is clothed in more glory than Solomon-would both bow down before colliers and farmers, and bless them as the benefactors of the race. Christianity has gone still farther, and makes a man's greatness consist in the amount of service he renders to the world. Certainly he is the most honourable who, by his head or his hand, does the greatest and best work for his race. The noblest soul the world ever saw appeared not in the ranks of the indolent, but took on him the form of a servant;' and when he washed his disciple's feet, meant something not very generally understood, perhaps, in the nineteenth century.”Theodore Parker.

Ho! ye who at the anvil toil,

And strike the sounding blow,
Where from the burning iron's breast

The sparks fly to and fro,
While answering to the hammer's ring,

And fire's intenser glow-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And sweat the long day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.
Ho! ye who till the stubborn soil,

Whose hard hands guide the plough,
Who bend beneath the summer sun,

With burning cheek and brow-
Ye deem the curse still clings to earth

From olden time till now
But while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labour all day through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.
Ho! ye who plough the sea's blue field,

Who ride the restless wave,
Beneath whose gallant vessel's keel

There lies a yawning grave,
Around whose bark the wintry winds

Like fiends of fury rave-
Oh! while ye feel 'tis hard to toil

And labour long hours through,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.

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Ho! ye upon whose fever'd cheeks

The hectic glow is bright,
Whose mental toil wears out the day

And half the weary night,
Who labour for the souls of men,

Champions of truth and right-
Although ye feel your toil is hard,

Even with this glorious view,
Remember it is harder still

To have no work to do.
Ho! all who labour, all who strive,

Ye wield a lofty power ;
Do with your might, do with your strength,

Fill every golden hour!
The glorious privilege to do,

Is man's most noble dower.
Oh! to your birthright and yourselves,

To your own souls be true!
A weary, wretched life is theirs,
Who have no work to do.

C. F. ORNE.

XXVII. LABOUR.

“ Two men I honour and no third. First, the toil-worn craftsman that with earth-made implement laboriously conquers the earth and makes her man's. Venerable to me is the hard hand; crooked, coarse; wherein notwithstanding lies a cunning virtue, indefeasibly royal, as of this planet. Venerable, too, is the rugged face all weather-tanned, besoiled, with its rude intelligence; for it is the face of a man living man-like. Oh, but the more venerable for thy rudeness, and even because we must pity as well as love thee! Hardly entreated brother! For us was thy back so bent, for us were thy straight limbs and fingers so deformed: thou wert our conscript on whom the lot fell, and fighting our battles wert so marred. For in thee too lay a God-created form, but it was not to be unfolded; encrusted must it stand with the thick adhesions and defacements of labour; and thy body, like thy soul, was not to know freedom. Yet toil on, toil on: thou art in thy duty, be out of it who may; thou toilest for the altogether indispensable, daily bread.”

" A second man I honour, and still more highly, him who is seen toiling for the spiritually indispensable—not daily bread, but the bread of life. Is not he, too, in his duty; endeavouring towards inward harmony; revealing this, by act or by word, through all his outward endeavours, be they high or low? Highest of all when his outward and his inward endeavour are one : when we can name him artist; not earthly craftsman only, but inspired thinker, who with

heaven-made implement conquers heaven for us ! If the poor and humble toil that we have food, must not the high and glorious toil for him in return that he have light, have guidance, freedom, immortality? These two, in all their degrees, I honour: all else is chaff and dust, which let the wind blow whither it listeth.”Carlyle.

HEART of the people working men !

Marrow and nerve of human powers ;
Who on your sturdy backs sustain

Through streaming time this world of ours;
Hold by that title which proclaims

That ye are undismayed and strong,
Accomplishing whatever aims

May to the sons of earth belong.
Yet not on ye alone depend

The offices, or burthens fall;
Labour for some or other end

Is lord and master of us all.
The high-born youth from downy bed

Must meet the morn with horse and hound;
While industry for daily bread

Pursues afresh his wonted round.

With all his pomp of pleasure, he

Is but your working comrade now;
And shouts and winds his horn, as ye

Might whistle at the loom or plough;
In vain for him has wealth the use

Of warm repose and careless joy,
When, as ye labour to produce,

He strives as active to destroy.
But who is this with wasted frame?

Sad sign of vigour overwrought-
What toil can this new victim claim ?

Pleasure for pleasure's sake besought,
How men would mock her flaunting shows,

Her golden promise, if they knew
What weary work she is to those

Who have no better work to do!
And he who still and silent sits

In closed room or shady nook,
And seems to nurse his idle wits

With folded arms or open book :

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To things now working in that mind,

Your children's children well may owe
Blessings that hope has ne'er defined

'Till from his busy thoughts they flow.
Thus all must work with head or hand,

For self or others, good or ill ;
Life ordained to bear, like land,

Some fruit, be fallow as it will :
Evil has force itself to sow

Where we deny the healthy seed,
And all our choice is this, to grow

Pasture and grain, or noisome weed.
Then in content possess your hearts,

Unenvious of each other's lot,-
For those which seem the easiest parts

Have travail which ye reckon not:
And he is bravest, happiest, best,

Who, from the task within his span,
Earns for himself his evening rest,
And an increase of food for man.

R. M. MILNES.

XXVIII. MY OWN AGE!

“Man is timid and apologetic. He is no longer upright. He dares not say, 'I think,' 'I am,' but quotes some saint or sage. He is ashamed before the blade of grass or the blowing rose.

These roses under my window make no reference to former roses or to better ones; they are for what they are; they exist with God to-day. There is no time to them. There is simply the rose; it is perfect in every moment of its existence. Before a leaf-bud has burst its whole life acts; in the full-blown flower there is no more ; in the leafless root there is no less. Its nature is satisfied and it satisfies nature in all moments alike. There is no time to it. But man postpones or remembers; he does not live in the present, but with riveted eye laments the past, or, heedless of the riches that surround him, stands on tip-toe to foresee the future. He cannot be happy and strong until he too lives with nature in the present, above time.”-R. W. Emerson.

My own age! my own age !

They say that thou art cold,
That faith and love less brightly burn

Than in the days of old.

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