But, oh, that look of reproachful woe! High as the heavens your name I'll shout, If you paint me the picture, and leave that out. Alice Cary.

THE ROSARY OF MY TEARS.

SOME reckon their ages by years,

Some measure their life by art—

But some tell their days by the flow of their tears,

And their life by the moans of their heart.

The dials of earth may show

The length, not the depth of years, Few or many they come, few or many they goBut our time is best measured by fears.

Ah! not by the silver gray

That creeps through the sunny hair,

And not by the scenes that we pass on our way—
And not by the furrows the finger of care

On the forehead and face have made-
Not so do we count our years;

Not by the sun of the earth, but the shade
Of our souls, and the fall of our tears.

For the young are oft-times old,

Though their brow be bright and fair;

While their blood beats warm their heart lies

cold

O'er them the spring-time, but winter is there.

And the old are oft-times young

When their hair is thin and white,

And they sing in age as in youth they sung,
And they laugh, for their cross was light.

But bead by bead I tell

The rosary of my years;

From a cross to a cross they lead—'tis well!
And they're blessed with a blessing of tears.

Better a day of strife

Than a century of sleep;

Give me instead of a long stream of life
The tempest and tears of the deep.

A thousand joys may foam

On the billows of all the years;

But never the foam brings the brave bark home: It reaches the haven through tears.

LABOR.

Father Ryan.

THERE is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in work. Were a man ever so benighted, or forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in him who actually and earnestly works; in idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Consider how, even in the meanest sorts of labor, the whole soul of a man is composed into real harmony. He bends himself with free valor against his task; and doubt, desire, sorrow, remorse, indignation, despair itself, shrink murmuring far off into their caves. The glow of

labor in him is a purifying fire, wherein all poison is burnt up; and of smoke itself there is made a bright and blessed flame.

;

Blessed is he who has found his work ; let him ask no other blessedness; he has a life purpose. Labor is life. From the heart of the worker rises the celestial force, breathed into him by Almighty God, awakening him to all nobleness, to all knowledge. Hast thou valued patience, courage, openness to light, or readiness to own thy mistakes? In wrestling with the dim, brute powers of Fact, thou wilt continually learn. For every noble work, the possibilities are diffused through immensity-undiscoverable, except to Faith.

Man, son of heaven! is there not in thine inmost heart a spirit of active method, giving thee no rest till thou unfold it? Complain not. Look up, wearied brother. See thy fellow-workmen surviving through eternity—the sacred band of immortals!

Thomas Carlyle.

THE RUSTIC BRIDAL;

OR, THE BLIND GIRL OF CASTEL CUILLE.

AT the foot of the mountain height

Where is perched the Castel Cuille,

When the apple, the plum, and the almond tree In the plain below were growing white,

This is the song one might perceive

On a Wednesday morn of St. Joseph's Eve:

"The roads should blossom, the roads should bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home;

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,
So fair a bride shall pass to-day.”

This old Te Deum, rustic rites attending,
Seemed from the clouds descending,

When lo! a merry company

Of rosy village girls, clean as the eye,
Each one with her attendant swain,

Came to the cliff, all singing the same strain;
Resembling there, so near unto the sky,
Rejoicing angels, that kind Heaven has sent
For their delight and our encouragement.
Together blending,

And soon descending

The narrow sweep
Of the hillside steep,
They wind aslant
Toward Saint Amant,
Through leafy alleys
Of verdurous valleys
With merry sallies
Singing their chant :

"The roads should blossom, the roads should

bloom,

So fair a bride shall leave her home,

Should blossom and bloom with garlands gay,

So fair a bride shall pass to-day."

It is Baptiste, and his affianced maiden,
With garlands for the bridal laden.

Gayly frolicking,
Wildly rollicking!
Kissing,

Caressing,

With fingers pressing,

Till in the veriest

Madness of mirth, as they dance,

They retreat and advance,

Trying whose laugh shall be loudest and merriest.

Meanwhile Baptiste stands sighing, with silent tongue;

And yet the bride is fair and young!

Now you must know one year ago,
That Margaret, the young and tender,
Was the village pride and splendor;
But, alas! the summer's blight,

That dread disease that none can stay,
The pestilence that walks by night,
Took the young bride's sight away.
Bereft of joy, ere long the lover fled;
Returned but three days ago,

The golden chain they round him throw,
He is enticed, and onward led

To marry Angela, and yet

Is thinking ever of Margaret.

But here comes crippled Jane, the village seer, She wears a countenance severe,

And saith, "When Angela weddeth this false bridegroom,

She diggeth for Margaret a tomb."