Rich the queen's robe from the frail cocoon floweth ; From the fine acorn the strong forest bloweth : Temple and statue the marble block hides.

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!

FRANCES SARGENT OSGOOD.

That we delve in the dirty clay,

Till we bless the plain with the golden grain,
And the vale with the fragrant hay.

Our place we know-we 're so very low,
"T is down at the landlord's feet:

We 're not too low the bread to grow,
But too low the bread to eat.

Down, down we go—we 're so very, very low--
To the hell of the deep-sunk mines,

But we gather the proudest gems that glow
When the crown of a despot shines.

And whenever he lacks, upon our backs
Fresh loads he deigns to lay :

We 're far too low to vote the tax,

But not too low to pay.

We 're low-we 're low-mere rabble, we know;

But at our plastic power,

The mold at the lordling's feet will grow

Into palace and church and tower;
Then prostrate fall in the rich man's hall,
And cringe at the rich man's door:
We 're not too low to build the wall,
But too low to tread the floor.

We're low, we 're low-we 're very, very low,Yet from our fingers glide

The silken flow and the robes that glow

Round the limbs of the sons of pride.

And what we get, and what we give,
We know, and we know our share:
We're not too low the cloth to weave,
But too low the cloth to wear!

We're low-we 're low-we 're very, very low;
And yet when the trumpets ring,

The thrust of a poor man's arm will go
Through the heart of the proudest king.
We're low-we 're low-our place we know,
We 're only the rank and file:

We're not too low to kill the foe,

But too low to touch the spoil.

ERNEST CHARLES JONES.

THE MAN WITH THE HOE.

"Bowed by the weight of centuries he leans
Upon his hoe and gazes on the ground,
The emptiness of ages in his face,

And on his back the burden of the world."

-E. MARKHAM,

From an etching by Bracquemond, after the painting by Jean François Millet.