The swinging ploughshare circles glistening round,
Till the wide field one billowy waste appears,
And wearied hands unbind the panting steers.
These are the hands whose sturdy labour brings
The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings:

This is the page whose letters shall be seen
Changed by the sun to words of living green;
This is the scholar whose immortal pen
Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men;
These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil
Shows on his deed-the charter of the soil!

One more extract from his charming compositions, and one of the

best :

We count the broken lyres that rest

Where the sweet wailing singers slumber;
But, o'er their silent sister's breast,

The wild flowers, who will stoop to number?

A few can touch the magic string,

And noisy Fame is proud to win them;

Alas! for those that never sing,

But die with all their music in them!

Nay, grieve not for the dead alone,

Whose song has told their hearts' sad story;
Weep for the voiceless, who have known
The cross without the crown of glory!
Not where Leucadian breezes sweep

O'er Sappho's memory-haunted billow,
But where the glistening night-dews weep,
On nameless sorrow's churchyard pillow!

O hearts that break and give no sign,

Save whitening lip and fading tresses,

Till Death pours out his cordial wine,

Slow dropped from Misery's crushing presses :

If singing breath, or echoing chord,

EMERSON'S fine lines, entitled Each and All, are now before us :

Little thinks, in the field, yon red-cloaked clown

Of thee, from the hill-top looking down;

The heifer that lows in the upland farm,

Far heard, lows not thy ear to charm;

The sexton, tolling his bell at noon,

Deems not that great Napoleon

Stops his horse, and lists with delight,

Whilst his files sweep round yon Alpine height;

Nor knowest thou what argument

Thy life to thy neighbour's creed has lent.

All are needed by each one

Nothing is fair or good alone.

And the bellowing of the savage sea
Greeted their safe escape to me.
I wiped away the weeds and foam,-

I fetched my sea-born treasures home;

But the poor, unsightly, noisome things

Had left their beauty on the shore,

With the sun, and the sand, and the wild uproar,

The lover watched his graceful maid,

As mid the virgin train she strayed;

Nor knew her beauty's best attire

Was woven still by the snow-white choir.

At last she came to his hermitage,

Like the bird from the woodlands to the cage;

The gay enchantment was undone―

A gentle wife, but fairy none.

Then I said, “I covet truth;

Beauty is unripe childhood's cheat

I leave it behind with the games of youth."
As I spoke, beneath my feet

The ground-pine curled its pretty wreath,
Running over the club-moss burs;

I inhaled the violet's breath;

Around me stood the oaks and firs;

Pine-cones and acorns lay on the ground;

Over me soared the eternal sky,
Full of light and of Deity:
Again I saw, again I heard,—

The rolling river, the morning bird;
Beauty through my senses stole—

I yielded myself to the perfect whole.

His admired poem on the Rhodora commences thus:

In May, when sea-winds pierced our solitudes,
I found the fresh Rhodora in the woods,
Spreading its leafless blooms in a damp nook,
To please the desert and the sluggish brook:
The purple petals fallen in the pool

Made the black waters with their beauty gay;
Here might the red-bird come his plumes to cool,
And court the flower that cheapens his array.
Rhodora! if the sages ask thee why

This charm is wasted on the marsh and sky,

Dear, tell them that if eyes were made for seeing,

Then beauty is its own excuse for being.

ROWLAND BROWN has published some beautiful effusions, in which he has exhibited much delicacy of fancy. Here are his lines on Love-Letters :——

As snowdrops come to a wintry world like angels in the night,
And we see not the Hand who has sent us them, though they give

us a strange delight;

And strong as the dew to freshen the flower or quicken the slumbering seed,

Are those little things called "letters of love," to hearts that com

fort need.