O noble work of toil and care!
O task most difficult and rare!

O simple but most arduous plan!
To raise a dwelling-place so fair,
The sanctuary of a Man.

CHAS. MACKAY.

А ВООК.

'M a strange contradiction; I'm new, and I'm old, I'm often in tatters, and oft decked with gold. Though I never could read, yet lettered I'm found; Though blind, I enlighten; though loose, I am bound, I'm always in black, and I'm always in white; I'm grave and I'm gay, I am heavy and light

In form too I differ,—I'm thick and I'm thin,

I've no flesh and no bones, yet I'm covered with skin;
I've more points than the compass, more stops than the flute;

I sing without voice, without speaking confute.

I'm English, I'm German, I'm French, and I'm Dutch;
Some love me too fondly, some slight me too much;

I often die soon, though I sometimes live ages,

And no monarch alive has so many pages.

HANNAH MORE.

WHO IS MY NEIGHBOUR?

HY neighbour? It is he whom thou

Hast power to aid and bless,

Whose aching heart or burning brow

Thy soothing hand may press.

Who is my Neighbour?

Thy neighbour? 'Tis the fainting poor,
Whose eye with want is dim,

Whom hunger sends from door to door;—
Go thou, and succour him.

Thy neighbour? 'Tis that weary man,
Whose years are at their brim,

Bent low with sickness, cares, and pain; —

Go thou and comfort him.

Thy neighbour? 'Tis the heart bereft
Of every earthly gem;

Widow and orphan, helpless left ;—

Go thou and shelter them.

Thy neighbour? Yonder toiling slave,
Fettered in thought and limb,
Whose hopes are all beyond the grave;—
Go thou and ransom him.

Whene'er thou meet'st a human form
Less favoured than thine own,
Remember 'tis thy neighbour worm,—
Thy mother, or thy son.

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by;
Perhaps thou canst redeem

The breaking heart from misery ;—

Go, share thy lot with him.

PEABODY.

343

SONG.

HAD a dove, and the sweet dove died;

And I have thought it died of grieving:

Oh, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving;

Sweet little red feet! why should you die

Why would you leave me, sweet bird? why?
You lived alone in the forest tree,

Why, pretty thing! would you not live with me?
I kissed you oft and gave you white peas;
Why not live sweetly, as in the green trees?

J. KEATS.

THE FISHERMAN.

PERILOUS life, and sad as life may be,
Hath the lone fisher, on the lonely sea,

O'er the wild waters labouring far from home,

For some bleak pittance e'er compelled to roam :
Few hearts to cheer him through his dangerous life,

And none to aid him in the stormy strife:

Companion of the sea and silent air,

The lonely fisher thus must ever fare :

Without the comfort, hope,-with scarce a friend,
He looks through life and only sees its end!

BARRY CORNWALL.

Verses.

345

VERSES,

SUPPOSED TO BE WRITTEN BY ALEXANDER SELKIRK, DURING HIS SOLITARY ABODE IN THE ISLAND OF JUAN FERNANDEZ.

AM monarch of all I survey,

My right there is none to dispute;
From the centre all round to the sea,
I am lord of the fowl and the brute.
O solitude! where are the charms

That sages have seen in thy face?
Better dwell in the midst of alarms,
Than reign in this horrible place.

I am out of humanity's reach,

I must finish my journey alone,
Never hear the sweet music of speech;
I start at the sound of my own!
The beasts that roam over the plain,
My form with indifference see;
They are so unacquainted with man,
Their tameness is shocking to me.

Society, friendship, and love,

Divinely bestowed upon man,

Oh, had I the wings of a dove,
How soon would I taste you again!
My sorrows I then might assuage
In the ways of religion and truth,

Might learn from the wisdom of age,

And be cheered by the sallies of youth.

Religion! what treasure untold

Resides in that heavenly word!

More precious than silver and gold,

Or all that this earth can afford:

But the sound of the church-going bell
These valleys and rocks never heard,
Never sighed at the sound of a knell,
Or smiled when a Sabbath appeared.

Ye winds, that have made me your sport,
Convey to this desolate shore

Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit, no more.
My friends, do they now and then send
A wish or a thought after me?

O tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see.

How fleet is a glance of the mind!
Compared with the speed of its flight,
The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light.
When I think of my own native land,
In a moment I seem to be there;
But alas! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,
The beast is laid down in his lair;
Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair.

There's mercy in

every place,

And mercy-encouraging thought!

Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

Cowper.