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النشر الإلكتروني

THE WHISTLE.

283

* Oh! men with sisters dear!

Oh! men with mothers and wives ! 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!

“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 sunny backs,

And twit me with the Spring.

" But why do I talk of death,

That phantom of grisly bone ? I hardly fear his terrible shape,

It seems so like my ownIt seems so like my own,

Because of the fast I keep: O 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,

A crust of bread—and rags : A shatter'd roof-and this naked floor

A table-a broken chairAnd a wall so blank, my shadow I thank

For sometimes falling there !

“Oh! but to breathe the breath

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

grass
beneath

my

feet: For only one short hour

To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,

And the walk that costs a meal! "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 the needle and thread !"
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 pitchWould that its tone could reach the rich !

She sung this "Song of the Shirt!"

“Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime; Work-work-work!

As prisoners work for crime! Band, and gusset, and seam,

Seam, and gusset, and band, Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,

As well as the weary hand!

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COU have heard," said a youth to

his sweetheart, who stood, While he sat on a corn-sheaf, at

daylight's decline,* You have heard of the Danish

boy's whistle of wood ? I wish that that Danish boy's

whistle were mine."

And what would you do with it ?—tell me,"

she said, While an arch smile played over her beau

tiful face. “I would blow it,” he answer

wered; "and then my fair maid Would fly to my side, and would here take

her place."

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TRANSLATED FROM THE PERSIAN BY WM. R. ALGER.

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N rural occupation there is nothing mean and debasing. It leads a

man forth among scenes of natural grandeur and beauty ; it leaves him to the workings of his own mind, operated upon by the purest and most elevating of external influences. The man of refinement, therefore, finds nothing revolting in an intercourse with the lower

orders of rural life, as he does when he casually mingles with the lower orders of cities. He lays aside his distance and reserve, and is glad to waive the distinctions of rank, and to enter into the honest heartfelt enjoyments of common life. Indeed the very amusements of the country

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bring men more and more together, and the sound of hound and horn blend all feelings into harmony. I believe this is one great reason why the nobility and gentry are more popular among the inferior orders in England than they are in any other country; and why the latter have endured so many excessive

pressures and extremities, without repining more generally at the unequal distribution of fortune and privilege.

To this mingling of cultivated and rustic society may also be attributed the rural feeling that runs through British literature; the frequent use of illustrations from rural life; those incomparable descriptions of nature which abound in the British poets, that have continued down from “The Flower and the Leaf" of Chaucer, and have brought into our closets all the freshness and fragrance of the dewy landscape. The pastoral writers of other countries appear as if they had paid Nature an occasional visit, and become acquainted with her general charms; but the British poets have revelled with her--they have wooed her in her most secret haunts they have watched her minutest caprices. A spray could not tremble in the breeze-a leaf could not rustle to the ground—a diamond drop could not patter in the stream a fragrance could not exhale from the humble violet, nor a daisy unfold its crimson tints to the morning, but it has been noticed by these impassioned and delicate observers, and wrought up into some beautiful morality.

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THE OLD ARM-CHAIR.

ELIZA COOK.

LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed
To chide me for loving that old arm-

it with sighs.
chair?

'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart; I've treasured it long as a sainted prize, / Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

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T'S a bonnie, bonnie warl' that we're

livin' in the noo, An' sunny is the lan’ we aften traivel

thro'; But in vain we look for something to

which our hearts can cling,

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An' we sigh when hoary winter lays its beau

ties wi' the dead;

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For though bonnie are the snawilakes, an' To the feet o' him wha reigneth i' the palace the down on winter's wing,

o'the King. It's fine to ken it daurna' touch the palace o'

An' let us trust him better than we've ever the King

done afore, Then again, I've juist been thinkin' that For the King will feed his servants frae his when a'thing here's sae bricht,

ever bounteous store. The sun in a' its grandeur an' the mune wi' Let us keep closer grip o' him, for time is on quiverin' licht,

the wing, The ocean i' the simmer or the woodland i' An' sune he'll come and tak' us to the palace the spring,

o the King. What maun it be up yonder i’ the palace o' the King.

Its iv'ry halls are bonnie, upon which the

rainbows shine, It's here we hae oor trials, an' it's here that An' its Eden bow'rs are trellised wi' a never he prepares

fadin' yine. A’ his chosen for the raiment which the ran- An' the pearly gates o' heaven do a glorious somed sinner wears,

radiance fing An' it's here that he wad hear us, 'mid oor On the starry floor that shimmers i' the pai tribulations sing,

ace o' the King "We'll trust oor God wha reigneth i' the

Nae nicht shall be in heaven an' nae desopalace o' the King." Though his palace is up yonder, he has king. An' nae tyrant hoofs shall trample i' the city doms here below,

o' the free. An' we are his ambassadors, wherever we There's an everlastin' daylight, an' a nevermay go;

fadin' spring, We've a message to deliver, an' we've lost Where the Lamb is a' the glory, i' the palanes hame to bring

ace o' the King To be leal and loyal-heartit i’ the palace o' the King.

We see oor frien's await us ower yonder at

latin' sea

his gate:

Oh, it's honor heaped on honor that his cour

tiers should be ta'en Frae the wand'rin' anes he died for i' this

warl' o' sin an' pain, An' it's fu'est love an' service that the Chris

tian aye should bring

Then let us a' be ready, for ye ken it's gettin'

late. Let oor lamps be brichtly burnin'; let's raise

oor voice an' sing, "Sune we'll meet, to pairt nae mair, i' the

palace o' the King."

PIP'S FIGHT.

CHARLES DICKENS.

OME and fight,” said the pale young gentleman.

What could I do but follow him? I have often asked myself the question since: but what else could I do? His manner was so final and I was so astonished, that I followed where he led, as if I had been under a spell.

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