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.
Labour 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.
Labour 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!
Labour 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-sirens 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! Labour! All labour is noble and holy;
Let thy great deeds be thy prayer to thy God!
THE NEGRO OUR BROTHER MAN.
In these romantic regions man grows wild:
Here dwells the Negro, nature's outcast child;
Scorned by his brethren; but his mother's eye,
That gazes on him from her warmest sky,
Sees in his flexile limbs untutored grace,
Power on his forehead, beauty in his face;
Sees in his breast, where lawless passions rove,
The heart of friendship and the home of love;
Sees in his mind, where desolation reigns,
Fierce as his clime, uncultured as his plains,
A soil where virtue's fairest flowers might shoot,
And trees of science bend with glorious fruit;
Sees in his soul, involved with thickest night,
An emanation of eternal light,
Ordained, 'midst sinking worlds, his dust to fire,
And shine for ever when the stars expire.
Is he not man, though knowledge never shed
Her quickening beams on his neglected head?
Is he not man, though sweet religion's voice
Ne'er made the mourner in his God rejoice?
Is he not man, by sin and suffering tried?
Is he not man, for whom the Saviour died?
Belie the Negro's powers :-in headlong will,
Christian! thy brother thou shalt prove him still:
Belie his virtues; since his wrongs began,
His follies and his crimes have stampt him Man.
From the low prayer of want, and plaint of woe, O never, never turn away thine ear!
Forlorn, in this bleak wilderness below,
Ah! what were man, should heaven refuse to hear!
To others do (the law is not severe)
What to thyself thou wishest to be done;
Forgive thy foes; and love thy parents dear,
And friends and native land-nor these alone;
All human weal and woe learn thou to make thine own.
Give me thy hand, brother-give me thy hand,
But not as thy fathers did, dripping with gore ;
Dash down the gauntlet, and shiver the brand,
But not in the fashion they did so of yore;
Throw away war's array, and let us prove
Which has the heart that is strongest in love.
Art thou of France, where the vine-blossoms cluster,
Bathed in the dewy shower, kissed by the sun?
Art thou of France, where the fair maidens muster,
To dance with their swains when their labour is done?
Then give me thy hand, for my heart can agree
To bless all that's good in thy nation with thee.
Oh, say, wert thou nurtured on Uri's wild hills,
Where the dark pine trees wave by the cottage of Tell;
Or didst thou first bathe in Geneva's bright rills,
And gather the foxglove and fern on its fells?
Then give me thy hand, and the heath-flower in mine,
Shall a love-token bloom on that bonnet of thine.
Dost thou come from Columbia, afar o'er the deep,
Where the forest its requiem sings in the storm;
Where the bison and elk o'er the broad prairie sweep,
And the hero of labour has conquered a farm?
Ah, then come away, as a brother should come,
For our fathers had birth in the same island-home.
Dost thou come from the west, where the zephyr at eve,
Sighs over the plains that are laden with balm;
Dost thou come from the east, where the pariahs grieve,
In their outcast retreats, 'neath the leaves of the palm ?
In the bright sunny south, or in Borean night;
Say, brother, where smileth thy home of delight?
Oh, I care not whence come you, or whither you dwell,
In the west or the east, in the south or the north;
Be thy skin of the darkest-thy home on the fell-
I care not, I only know manhood and worth.
Then thy hand, brother man; and, oh, let us prove,
Whose heart is the strongest in " brotherly love."
We know 'tis good that old winter should come,
Roving awhile from its Lapland home;
'Tis fitting that we should hear the sound
Of his rein-deer sledge on the slippery ground.
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