Stonewall Jackson's Way. And stir the camp-fires bright! Of Stonewall Jackson's way! We see him now-his old slouched hat His shrewd, dry smile, his speech so pat, The blue light Elder knows 'em well, Silence! Ground arms! Kneel all! Hats off! Strangle the fool that dares to scoff! Attention! 'Tis his way! Kneeling upon his native sod In forma pauperis to God— "Stretch forth thine arm! Lay bare thy rod! Amen!" That's Stonewall's way! He's in the saddle now-"Fall in! Steady, the whole brigade! His way out, ball or blade! No matter if our feet be torn- The sun's bright lances rout the mists "Pope and his Yankees, whipped before! Ah, woman! wait and watch, and yearn Ah, maiden weep on, hope on, pray on, The foe had better ne'er been born The Burial of Sir John Moore. JOT a drum was heard, not a funeral note, As his corse to the rampart we hurried; Not a soldier discharged his farewell shot O'er the grave where our hero we buried. We buried him darkly at dead of night, The sods with our bayonets turningBy the struggling moonbeam's misty light, And the lantern dimly burning. No useless coffin inclosed his breast, Not in a sheet or shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face of the dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed, When the clock struck the hour for retiring; AUSE not to dream of the future before us; PAUSE LABOR. Labor. Pause not to weep the wild cares that come o'er us; Hark how creation's deep, musical chorus, Unintermitting, goes up into heaven! More and more richly the rose heart keeps glowing, "Labor is worship!" the robin is singing; Speaks to thy soul from out nature's great heart. Labor is rest from the sorrows that greet us, Rest from all petty vexations that meet us, Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, -F. S. Osgood. THE The Achievements of Labor. HERE is dignity in toil-in toil of the hand as well as toil of the head-in toil to provide for the bodily wants of an individual life, as well as in toil to promote some enterprise of world-wide fame. All labor that tends to supply man's wants, to increase man's happiness, to elevate man's nature-in a word, all labor that is honest-is honorable too. Labor clears the forest, and drains the morass, and makes the "wilderness rejoice and blossom as the rose." Labor drives the plow, and scatters the seeds, and reaps the harvest, and grinds the corn, and converts it into bread, the staff of life. Labor, tending the pastures and sweeping the waters, as well as cultivating the soil, provides with daily sustenance the nine hundred millions of the family of man. Labor gathers the gossamer web of the caterpillar, the cotton from the field, and the fleece from the flock, and weaves it into raiment soft and warm and beautiful, the purple robe of the prince and the gray gown of the peasant being alike its handiwork. Labor moulds the brick, and splits the slate, and quarries the stone, and shapes the column, and rears not only the humble cottage, but the gorgeous palace, and the tapering spire, and the stately dome. Labor, diving deep into the solid earth, brings up its long-hidden stores of coal to feed ten thousand furnaces, and in millions of homes to defy the winter's cold. Labor explores the rich veins of deeply-buried rocks, extracting the gold and silver, the copper and tin. Labor smelts the iron, and moulds it into a thousand shapes for use and Jornament, from the massive pillar to the tiniest needle, from the ponderous anchor to the wire gauze, from the mighty fly-wheel of the steam-engine to the polished purse-ring or the glittering bead. Labor hews down the gnarled oak, and shapes the timber, and builds the ship, and guides it over the deep, plunging through the billows, and wrestling with the tempest, to bear to our shores the produce of every clime. Labor, laughing at difficulties, spans majestic rivers, carries viaducts over marshy swamps, suspends bridges over deep ravines, pierces the solid mountain with the dark tunnel, blasting rocks and filling hollows, and while linking together with its iron but loving grasp all nations of the earth, verifying, in a literal sense, the ancient prophecy, "Every valley shall be exalted, and every mountain and hill shall be brought low;" labor draws forth its delicate iron thread, and stretching it from city to city, from province to province, through mountains and beneath the sea, realizes more than fancy ever fabled, while it constructs a chariot on which speech may outstrip the wind, and compete with lightning, for the telegraph flies as rapidly as thought itself. Labor, the mighty magician, walks forth into a region uninhabited and waste; he looks earnestly at the scene, so quiet in its desolation, then waving his wonder-working wand, those dreary valleys smile with golden harvests; those barren mountain-slopes are clothed with foliage; the furnace blazes; the anvil rings; the busy wheel whirls round; the town appears; the temple of religion rears its lofty front; a forest of masts rises from the harbor. On every side are heard the sounds of industry and gladness. Labor achieves grander victories, it weaves more durable trophies, it holds wider sway than the conqueror. His name becomes tainted and his monuments crumble; but labor converts his red battlefields into gardens, and erects monuments significant of better things. Keep the busy fingers plying, Keep upon the anvil ringing Work away! For the leader's eye is on us Never off us, still upon us, Night and day. Wide the trackless prairies round us, Smile the soft savannas green, Bring your axes, woodmen true; Of heaven's sunny eye looks through O'er the torrent fling your bridges, Work away! Scouts upon the mountain's peak- Of the country ye have scanned, Work away! For the Father's eye is on us, Never off us, still upon us, Night and day. WORK AND PRAY! Pray and work will be completer; Work! and prayer will be the sweeter; Love! and prayer and love the fleeter Will ascend upon their way. Fear not lest the busy finger Weave a net the soul to stay: Give her wings-she will not linger; Live in Future as in Present; Is our own! for lord and peasant, Long and bright as summer's day, Labor. Play the sweet keys, wouldst thou keep them in tune! Labor is rest-from the sorrows that greet us; Labor is health! Lo, the husbandman reaping, Droop not-though shame, sin, and anguish are round thee! Bravely fling off the cold chain that hath bound thee! Look to the 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 deed be thy prayer to thy God. -Francis S. Osgood. Never Despair. 'HE opal-hued and many-perfumed morn THE From gloom is born; From out the sullen depth of ebon night The stars shed light; Gems in the rayless caverns of the earth Have their slow birth; From wondrous alchemy of winter hours Come summer flowers; |