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LABOR IS WORSHIP.

Laborare est orare-To labor is to pray.

AUSE not to dream of the future before us;

PAUSE

Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us;

Hark, how Creation's deep, musical chorus,

Unintermitting, goes up into heaven!

Never the ocean wave falters in flowing;
Never the little seed stops in its growing;

More and more richly the rose-heart keeps glowing,
Till from its nourishing stem it is riven.

"Labor is worship!"-the robin is singing; "Labor is worship!"

the wild bee is ringing: Listen! that eloquent whisper upspringing

Speaks to thy soul from out Nature's great heart. From the dark cloud flows the life-giving shower; From the rough sod blows the soft-breathing flower; From the small insect, the rich coral bower;

Only man, in the plan, shrinks from his part.

Labor is life! 'Tis the still water faileth;
Idleness ever despaireth, bewaileth;

Keep the watch wound, for the dark rust assaileth;
Flowers droop and die in the stillness of noon.
Labor is glory!- the flying cloud lightens;

Only the waving wing changes and brightens ;

Idle hearts only the dark future frightens;

Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune!

Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us,
Rest from all petty vexations that meet us,
Rest from sin-promptings that ever entreat us,
Rest from world-syrens that lure us to ill.
Work-and pure slumbers shall wait on thy pillow!
Work-thou shalt ride over Care's coming billow!
Lie not down wearied 'neath Woe's weeping-willow!
Work with a stout heart and resolute will!

Droop not, though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee? Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee!

Look to yon pure heaven smiling beyond thee;

Rest not content in thy darkness a clod. Work for some good, be it ever so slowly; Cherish some flower, be it ever so lowly; Labor! all labor is noble and holy;

Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God!

A

THE ORDER OF NATURE.

LL are but parts of one stupendous whole,
Whose body nature is, and God the soul;
That, changed through all, and yet in all the same,
Great in the earth, as in the ethereal frame,
Warms in the sun, refreshes in the breeze,
Glows in the stars, and blossoms in the trees,
Lives through all life, extends through all extent,
Spreads undivided, operates unspent ;

Breathes in our soul, informs our mortal part,
As full, as perfect, in a hair as heart;

As full, as perfect, in vile man that mourns,
As the rapt seraph that adores and burns:
To Him, no high, no low, no great, no small;
He fills, he bounds, connects, and equals all.

Cease, then, nor Order, Imperfection name
Our proper bliss depends on what we blame.
Know thy own point: this kind, this due degree
Of blindness, weakness, Heaven bestows on thee.
Submit; in this, or any other sphere,

Secure to be as blest as thou canst bear

Safe in the hand of one disposing Power,
Or in the natal, or the mortal hour.
All nature is but art, unknown to thee;

All chance, direction, which thou canst not see;
All discord, harmony not understood;

All partial evil, universal good:

And, spite of pride, in erring reason's spite,
One truth is clear: Whatever is, is right.

AMERICA'S CONTRIBUTIONS TO THE WORLD.

W

́HAT, it is asked, has this nation done to repay the world

for the benefits we have received from others? Is it nothing for the universal good of mankind to have carried into successful operation a system of self-government - uniting personal liberty, freedom of opinion, and equality of rights, with national power and dignity—such as had before existed only in the Utopian dreams of philosophers? Is it nothing, in moral science, to have anticipated, in sober reality, numerous plans of reform in civil and criminal jurisprudence, which are but now received as plausible theories by the politicians and economists of Europe? Is it nothing to have been able to call forth, on every emergency, either in war or peace, a body of talents always equal to the difficulty? Is it nothing to have, in less than half a century, exceedingly improved the sciences of political economy, of law, and of medicine, with all their auxiliary branches; to have enriched human knowledge by the accumulation of a great mass of useful facts and observations, and to have augmented the power and the comforts of civilized man by miracles of mechanical invention? Is it nothing to have given the world examples of disinterested patriotism, of political wisdom, of public virtue; of learning, eloquence, and valor, never exerted save for some praiseworthy end? It is sufficient to have briefly suggested these considerations; every mind would anticipate me in filling up the details. No, land of liberty!-thy children have no cause to blush for thee. What, though the arts have reared few monuments among us, and scarce a trace of the Muse's footstep is found in the paths of our forests, or along the banks of our rivers-yet our soil has been consecrated by the blood of heroes, and by great and holy deeds of peace. Its wide extent has become one vast temple and hallowed asylum, sanctified by the prayers and blessings of the persecuted of every sect, and the wretched of all nations. Land of refuge land of benedictions! - those prayers still arise, and they still are heard: "May peace be within thy walls, and plenteousness within thy palaces!" "May there be no decay, no leading into captivity, and no complaining in thy streets!" "May truth flourish out of the earth, and righteousness look down from heaven!"

OUR DUTY TO OUR COUNTRY.

HE Old World has already revealed to us, in its unsealed

Tbooks, the beginning and end of all its own marvellous strug

gles in the cause of liberty. Greece, lovely Greece,

are no more.

"The land of scholars and the nurse of arms,"

where sister republics, in fair procession, chanted the praises of liberty and the gods-where and what is she? For two thousand years the oppressor has ground her to the earth. Her arts The last sad relics of her temples are but the barracks of a ruthless soldiery. The fragments of her columns and her palaces are in the dust, yet beautiful in ruins. She fell not when the mighty were upon her. Her sons were united at Thermopyla and Marathon, and the tide of her triumph rolled back upon the Hellespont. She was conquered by her own factions. She fell by the hands of her own people. The man of Macedonia did not the work of destruction. It was already done by her own corruptions, banishments, and dissensions. Rome, republican Rome, whose eagles glanced in the rising and setting sun where and what is she? The eternal city yet remains, proud even in her desolation, noble in her decline, venerable in the majesty of religion, and calm as in the composure of death. The malaria has but travelled in the paths worn by her destroyers. More than eighteen centuries have mourned over the loss of her empire. A mortal disease was upon her vitals before Cæsar had crossed the Rubicon; and Brutus did not restore her health by the deep probings of the senate chamber. The Goths, and Vandals, and Huns, the swarms of the North, completed only what was already begun at home. Romans betrayed Rome. The legions were bought and sold; but the people offered the tribute

money.

We stand the latest, and, if we fail, probably the last experiment of self-government by the people. We have begun it under circumstances of the most auspicious nature. We are in the vigor of youth. Our growth has never been checked by the oppressions of tyranny. Our constitutions have never been enfeebled by the vices or luxuries of the Old World. Such as we are, we have been from the beginning- simple, hardy, intelligent,

accustomed to self-government, and to self-respect. The Atlantic rolls between us and any formidable foe. Within our own territory, stretching through many degrees of latitude and longitude, we have the choice of many products, and many means of independence. The government is mild. The press is free. Religion is free. Knowledge reaches, or may reach, every home. What fairer prospect of success could be presented? What means more adequate to accomplish the sublime end? What more is necessary than for the people to preserve what they have themselves created? Already has the age caught the spirit of our institutions. It has already ascended the Andes, and snuffed the breezes of both oceans. It has infused itself into the lifeblood of Europe, and warmed the sunny plains of France and the low lands of Holland. It has touched the philosophy of Germany and the North; and, moving onward to the South, has opened to Greece the lessons of her better days. Can it be that America, under such circumstances, can betray herself? Can it be that she is to be added to the catalogue of republics, the inscription upon whose ruins is: They were, but they are not? Forbid it, my countrymen! Forbid it, Heaven!

THE COMMON LOT.

NCE, in the flight of ages past,
There lived a man; and who was he?

Mortal! howe'er thy lot be cast,

That man resembled thee.
Unknown the region of his birth,

The land in which he died unknown:
His name has perished from the earth;
This truth survives alone: -

That joy and grief, and hope and fear,

Alternate triumphed in his breast;
His bliss and woe-a smile, a tear!-
Oblivion hides the rest.
The bounding pulse, the languid limb,

The changing spirit's rise and fall;
We know that these were felt by him,
For these are felt by all.

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