filled up the walls of libraries, every inch of which contained a mass of latent light hoarded for the use of ages? What took the hint from the split walnut-shell which some boy floated on the brook, and set on the flood first the boat, and then the ship, and has scattered these glorious children of man, the water-walking ships, over all the oceans of the world, and filled them with the produce of all lands, and the machinery and steam of profoundest inventions?

14. What has made the wide sea like a great city street, where merchants are going to and fro full of eager thoughts of self-accumulation, but not the less full of international blessings? What has made the land like one great garden, laid down its roads that run like veins to every portion of the system of life, cut its canals, cast up its lines of rail-ways, and driven along them, in fire and vapor, the awful but beneficial dragons of modern enterprise? What has piled up all our cities with their glittering and exhaustless wealth, their splendid utensils, their paintings, their mechanic wonders, all serving domestic life, and its beloved fireside delights? Labor! labor! LABOR! It is labor, and your labor, men of the multitude, that has done it all!

15. True, the wise ones tell us that it is intellect that has done it. And all honor to intellect! It is not I, nor you, fellow-workers, who will attempt to rob the royal power of intellect of one iota of his renown. Intellect is also a glori

us gift of the Divinity,-a divine principle in the earth. We set intellect at the head of labor, and bid it lead the way o all wonders and discoveries; but we know that intellect can not go alone. Intellect can not separate itself from labor.

16. Intellect has also its labor; and in its most abstract and ethereal form can not develop itself without the co-operation of its twin-brother labor. When intellect exerts itself,— when it thinks, and invents, and discovers,-it then labors. Through the medium of labor it does all that it does; and upon labor it is perfectly dependent to carry out all its mehanical operations. itellect is the head,-labor the right

nand. Take away the hand, and the head is a magazine of knowledge and fire that is sealed up in eternal darkness. Such are the relationships of labor and intellect.

2.

3.

5

EXERCISE XIII.

THE LABORER.

WM. D. GALLAGHER.

Stand up-erect! Thou hast the form,

And likeness of thy God!-who more?

A soul as dauntless 'mid the storm

Of daily life, a heart as warm

And pure, as breast e'er wore.

What then?-Thou art as true a man
As moves the human mass among ;
As much a part of the great plan
That with Creation's dawn began,
As any of the throng.

Who is thine enemy?—the high

In station, or in wealth the chief?
The great, who coldly pass thee by,
With proud step and averted eye?
Này! nurse not such belief.

If true unto thyself thou wast,

What were the proud one's scorn to thee!

A feather, which thou mightest cast
Aside, as idly as the blast

The light leaf from the tree.

No;-uncurb'd passions, low desires,
Absence of noble self-respect,

Death, in the breast's consuming fires,
To that high nature which aspires

Forever, till thus check'd.

6.

7.

8.

9.

These are thine enemies-thy worst;
They chain thee to thy lowly lot:
Thy labor and thy life accursed.
O, stand erect! and from them burst'
And longer suffer not!

Thou art thyself thine enemy!

The great!—what better tney than thou?

As théirs, is not thy will as free?

Has GOD with equal favors thee

Neglected to endów?

True, wealth thou hast not-'tis but dust!
Nor place uncertain as the wind!
But that thou hast, which, with thy crust,
And water, may despise the lust
Of both,-a noble mind.

With this, and passions under ban,
True faith, and holy trust in God,

Thou art the peer of any man.
Look up then that thy little span
Of life may be well trod!

EXERCISE XIV,

ACTION ALWAYS HEALTHFUL.

1. By ceaseless action, all that is subsists.

Constant rotation of the unwearied wheel

That Nature rides upon, maintains her health,
Her beauty, her fertility. She dreads

COWPER

An instant's pause, and lives but while she moves.
Its own revolvency upholds the world.

2. Winds from all quarters agitate the air,
And fit the limpid element for use,

Else noxious; oceans, rivers, lakes and streams,
All feel the freshening impulse, and are cleansed
By restless undulation; e'en the oak

Thrives by the rude concussion of the storm:
He seems, indeed, indignant, and to feel
The impression of the blast with proud disdain,
Frowning, as if in his unconscious arm

He held the thunder; but the monarch owes
His firm stability to what he scorns,

More fixed below, the more disturbed above.

3. The law, by which all creatures else are bound,
Binds man, the lord of all. Himself derives
No mean advantage from a kindred cause;
From strenuous toil his hours of sweetest ease.
The sedentary stretch their lazy length
When custom bids, but no refreshment find;
For none they need: the languid eye, the cheek
Deserted of its bloom, the flaccid, shrunk,
And withered muscle, and the vapid soul,
Reproach their owner with that love of rest,
To which he forfeits e'en the rest he loves.

Not such the alert and active. Measure life
By its true worth, the comfort it affords,
And their's alone seems worthy of the name.
Good health, and its associate in the most,
Good temper; spirits prompt to undertake,
And not soon spent, though in an arduous task;
The powers of fancy and strong thought are theirs ;
E'en age itself seems privileged in them
With clear exemption from its own defects.
A sparkling eye beneath a wrinkled front
The veteran shows, and gracing a gray beard

5.

6.

7.

With youthful smiles, descends toward the giave
Sprightly and old, almost without decay.

Like a coy maiden, Ease, when courted most,
Farthest retires,—an idol, at whose shrine
Who oftenest sacrifice, are favored least.
The love of Nature, and the scenes she draws,
Is Nature's dictate. Strange! there should be found,
Who, self-imprisoned in their proud saloons,
Renounce the odors of the open field

For the unscented fictions of the loom;
Who, satisfied only with penciled scenes,
Prefer to the performance of a God
Th' inferior wonder of an artist's hand!
Lovely, indeed, the mimic works of Art;
But Nature's works far lovelier.

I admire,
None more admires, the painter's magic skill,
Who shows me that which I shall never see,
Conveys a distant country into mine,

And throws Italian light on English walls:
But imitative strokes can do no more

Than please the eye,-sweet Nature's every ser se
The air salubrious of her lofty hills,

The cheering fragrance of her dewy vales,
And music of her woods,-no works of man
May rival these; these all bespeak a power
Peculiar, and exclusively her own.

Beneath the open sky she spreads the feast;
"Tis free to all-'tis every day renewed;
Who scorns it starves deservedly at home.
He does not scorn it who, imprisoned long
In some unwholesome dungeon, and a prey
To sallow sickness, which the vapors, dank
And clammy, of his dark abode have bred,
Escapes at last to liberty and light: