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“Work! work! work!
While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work-work-work,
Till the stars shine through the roof!
It's oh! to be a slave

Along with the barbarous Turk, Where woman has never a soul to save,

If this is Christian work!

“ Work-work-work,
Till the brain begins to swim,

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,

Band, and gusset, and seam, Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

“Oh! men, with sisters dear!

Oh! men, with mothers and wives !
It is not linen you're wearing out,
But human creatures' lives!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
Sewing at once, with a double thread,

A shroud as well as a shirt.

“But why do I talk of death,

That phantom of grisly bone, I hardly fear his terrible shape,

It seems so like my own

It seems so like my own,

Because of the fasts I keep,
Oh God! that bread should be so dear,

And flesh and blood so cheap !

My labor never flags;
And what are its wages ? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread, -and rags,-
That shattered roof—and this naked floor-

A table—a broken chair-
And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there !

“Work-work-work !
From weary chime to chime !

As prisoners work for crime !

Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,

As well as the weary hand.

“ Work—work—work !
In the dull December light,

And work—work—work,
When the weather is warm and bright-
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,

And twit me with the Spring.

IX. “Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet, With the sky above my head

And the grass beneath my feet, For only one sweet hour

To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal!

“Oh! but for one short hour!

A respite, however brief!
No blesséd leisure for love or hope,

But only time for grief!
A little weeping would ease my heart,

But, in their bring bed,
My tears must stop, for every drop

Hinders needle and thread !”

With fingers weary and worn,

With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread-

Stitch! stitch! stitch !
In poverty, hunger, and dirt,
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch-
Would that its tone could reach the rich !

She sung this “Song of the Shirt”




I. 'Tis truth that painter, bard, and sage,

Even in earth's cold and changeful clime, Plant for their deathless heritage

The fruits and flowers of time.

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Oh, no! We live our life again :

Or warmly touched or coldly dim,
The pictures of the Past remain,-



JOSEPH Story, the eminent jurist, and accomplished scholar, was born at Marblehead, in Massachusetts, in 1782. In 1811 he was made a judge of the Supreme Court of the United States. In 1830 he was appointed Dane Professor of the Law School of Harvard University. In both these situations he acquitted himself with distinguished ability. He died in 1845. The following is from a discourse on the occasion of the consecration of Mount Auburn Cemetery in 1831.


JUDGE STORY. 1. “Bury me not, I pray thee," said the patriarch Jacob, bury me not in Egypt: but I will lie with my fathers. And thou shalt carry me out of Egypt: but I will lie with my fathers. And thou shalt carry me out of Egypt; and bury me in their burying-place.There they buried Abraham, and Sarah his wife; there they buried Isaac, and Rebecca his wife; and there I buried Leah."

2. Such are the natural expressions of human feeling, as they fall from the lips of the dying Such are the reminiscences that forever crowd on the confines of the passes to the grave. We seek again to have our home there with our friends, and to be blest by a communion with them. It is a matter of instinct, not of reasoning. It is a spiritual impulse, which supersedes belief, and disdains question.

3. It is to the living mourner-to the parent, weeping over his dear dead child—to the husband, dwelling in his own solitary desolation—to the widow, whose heart is broken by untimely sorrow—to the friend, who misses at every turn the

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