« ПретходнаНастави »
Ever prompting,-ever seeing
Some improvement yet to plan; To uplift our fellow-being,
And, like man, to feel for Man!
What is noble? Is the saber
Nobler than the humble spade ? There's a dignity in labor,
Truer than e'er pomp arrayed! He who seeks the Mind's improvement,
Aids the world, in aiding Mind; Every great commanding movement
Serves not one, --but all mankind.
O'er the Forge's heat and ashes,
O'er the Engine's iron head, Where the rapid shuttle flashes,
And the spindle whirls its thread, There is Labor lowly tending
Each requirement of the hour; There is Genius still extending
Science and its world of power!
Mid the dust, and speed, and clamor
Of the loom-shed and the mill; Midst the clink of wheel ard hammer,
Great results are growing still ! Though, too oft, by Fashion's creatures,
Work and workers may be blamed, Commerce need not hide its features !
Industry is not ashamed.
What is noble? That which places
Truth in its enfranchised will; Leaving steps, like angel traces,
That mankind may follow still ! E'en though Scorn's malignant glances
Prove him poorest of his clan, He's the Noble who advances
Freedom and the Cause of Man!
She was but given,
To blossom in heaven.
SHE PRAYS FOR HER BOY.-ANNA M. BATES.
SHE prays for her boy at eve and dawn-
She prays for her boy-Oh! I think to-day,
Oh! a mother's love—what fount like this
She prays for her boy-I see her now,
THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR.
She prays for her boy-oh! lonely heart
prays for her boy-and thus it will be,
THE FIGHT OF PASO DEL MAR.-BAYARD TAYLOR.
Gusty and raw was the morning,
A fog hung over the seas,
Were torn by the mountain trees;
Of waves on the sandy bar,
Rode down to the Paso del Mar.
The pescador, out in his shallop,
Gathering his harvest so wide,
Loom over the waste of the tide ;
Wind round on the terrible wall,
Seems hovering close to its fall i
Stout Pablo of San Diego
Rode down from the hills behind ;
He sang through the fog and wind.
Under his thick, misted eyebrows,
Twinkled his eye like a star,
Drove cold on Paso del Mar.
Had traveled the shore since dawn,
Good reason he had to be gone!
The fury was hot in his brain,
Beat thick on his forehead in vain.
With his blanket wrapped gloomily round him,
He mounted the dizzying road, And the chasms and steeps of the headland
Were slippery and wet, as he trode;
Rolling the fog from afar,
Midway on the Paso del Mar!
And “Back!” shouted Pablo, in wrath; As his mule halted, startled and shrinking,
On the perilous line of the path! The roar of devouring surges
Came up from the breakers' hoarse war; And "Back, or you perish!” cried Bernal,
“I turn not on Paso del Mar!”
The gray mule stood firm as the headland
He clutched at the jingling rein, When Pablo rose up in his saddle,
And smote till he dropped it again, A wild oath of passion swore Bernal,
And brandished his dagger, still red, While fiercely stout Pablo leaned forward,
And fought o'er his trusty mule's head. They fought, till the black wall below them
Shone red through the nfisty blast; Stout Pablo then struck, leaning further,
The broad breast of Bernal at last.