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to continue. God is in his universe and guides the nations in

their way.

9. We will hold to our goodly trust; and, in the strength of that earnest trust, we will firmly believe that he has rich blessings yet in store for Ireland. Where often we can see nothing but evil, our gracious Father is preparing good; and we so believe it now, for sad, afflicted, mourning Ireland. O land of my heart, of my fathers, and my birth! I will ever keep it in my thoughts that God is looking down upon you with pity and with grace, and that he will call you up more brightly from your calamity. The times, indeed, seem bau; but suffering will leave its blessings.

10. Plenty will come again'; and humility, and gratitude', and mercy', and penitent and softened hearts', will come along with it. Peace will be established'; confidence will come with peace'; capital will follow confidence'; employment will increase with capital'; education will be desired"; knowledge will be diffused', and virtue will grow with knowledge'. Yet, even if these things should not soon be,-if all that is now anticipated should long be "hope deferred,” and many a heart should sicken in waiting for relief,-yet I will not despond: I will not despond for Ireland ; I will not despond for humanity; I will entertain no doubt in the Agency which guides the world, and no mistrust in the destiny whereunto the world moves.




Thomas Hood, a distinguished poet and essayist, was born in London in 1798, and died in 1845.

1. 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,

sung Song of the Shirt.”
2. « Work'! work'! work'!
While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work! work! work !
Till the stars shine through the roof!

the 66

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 !


6 Work! work! work !
Till the brain begins to swim,

Work! work! work !
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'!


“O men', with sisters dear'!

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

Stitch! stitch! stitch !
In poverty, hunger', and dirt';
Sewing at once, with a double thread',

A shroud as well as a shirt'.

5. “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'!


" Work! work! work !

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

A crust of bread', and rags';
That shatter'd roof', and this naked floor';

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

For sometimes falling there'?

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Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,
Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb’d,
As well as the




" 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


backs And twit me with the spring.

9. 16 Oh! but to breathe the breath

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



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 !

10 “Oh! but for one short hour!

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

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

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

Hinders needle and thread !" ů. 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 song could reach the rich !)

She sung this “ Song of the Shirt."




1. I've been among the mighty Alps, and wander'd through

their vales, And heard the honest mountaineers relate their dismal tales, As round the cotter's blazing hearth, when their daily work was

o'er, They spake of those who disappear'd, and ne'er were heard of


2. And there I, from a shepherd, heard a narrative of fear, A tale to rend a mortal heart, which mothers might not hear: The tears were standing in his eyes, his voice was tremulous; But, wiping all those tears away, he told his story thus :3. “It is among these barren cliffs the ravenous vulture dwells, Who never fattens on the prey which from afar he smells, But, patient, watching hour on hour, upon a lofty rock, He singles out some truant lamb, a victim from the flock. 4. “ One cloudless Sabbath summer morn,, the sun was rising

high, When from my children on the green I heard a fearful cry; As if some awful deed were done,-a shriek of grief and pain, A cry I humbly trust in God I ne'er may hear again. 5. “I hurried out to learn the cause, but, overwhelm'd with

fright, The children never ceased to shriek; and from my frenzied

sight I miss'd the youngest of my babes, the darling of my care: But something caught my searching eyes, slow sailing through

the air.

6. “Oh, what an awful spectacle to meet a father's eye!
His infant made a vulture's prey, with terror to descry,
And know, with agonizing heart, and with a maniac rave,
That earthly power could not avail that innocent to save!


7. My infant stretch'd his little hands imploringly to me, And struggled with the ravenous bird, all vainly, to get free! At intervals I heard his cries, as loud he shriek'd and scream'd! Until upon the azure sky a lessening spot he seem'd. 8. “The vulture flapp'd his sail-like wings, though heavily he A mote upon the sun's bright face he seem'd unto my view. But once I thought I saw him stoop, as if he would alight: 'Twas only a delusive thought, for all had vanish'd quite. 9. “ All search was vain, and years had pass’d:that child was

ne'er forgot ; When once a daring hunter climb'd unto a lofty spot; From thence, upon a rugged crag the chamois never reach'd, He saw an infant's fleshless bones, the elements had bleach'd ! 10. “I clamber'd up that rugged cliff; I could not stay away; I knew they were my infant's bones thus hastening to decay. A tatter'd garment yet remain'd, though torn to many a shred, The crimson cap he wore that morn was still upon his head.” 11. That dreary spot is pointed out to travelers passing by, Who often stand, and, musing, gaze, nor go without a sigh; And, as I journey'd the next morn along my sunny way, The precipice was shown to me whereon the infant lay.




1. The houses of the higher class were generally constructed of wood, excepting the gable end, which was of small-black-and yellow Dutch bricks, and always faced on the street; as our ancestors, like their descendants, were very much given to outward show, and were noted for putting the best foot foremost. The house was always furnished with abundance of large doors and small windows on every floor; the date of its erection was curiously designated by iron figures on the front; and on the top of the roof was perched a fierce little weathercock, to let the family into the important secret which way the wind blew. 2. These pointed so many



man could have a wind to his mind; and you would have thought old Æolus

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