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To think that I ever should live to see work done in this wonderful way!

Old tools are of little service now, and farmin' is almost play, The women have got their sewin'-machines, their wringers, and every sich thing,

And now play croquet in the dooryard, or sit in the parlor and sing.

'Twasn't you that had it so easy, wife, in the days so long gone by;

You riz up early, and sat up late, a-toilin' for you and I: There were cows to milk; there was butter to make; and many a day did you stand

A-washin' my toil-stained garments, and wringin' 'em out by hand.

Ah! wife, our children will never see the hard work we have

seen,

For the heavy task and the long task is now done with a machine;

No longer the noise of the scythe I hear, the mower--there! hear it afar?

A-rattlin' along through the tall, stout grass with the noise of a railroad car.

Well! the old tools now are shoved away; they stand agatherin' rust,

Like many an old man I have seen put aside with only a crust;

When the eyes grow dim, when the step is weak, when the strength goes out of his arm,

The best thing a poor old man can do is to hold the deed of the farm.

There is one old way that they can't improve, although it has been tried

By men who have studied and studied, and worried till they died;

It has shone undimmed for ages, like gold refined from its

dross;

It's the way to the kingdom of heaven, by the simple way of the cross.

GOUGAUNE BARRA.-J. J. CALLANAN.

There is a green island in lone Gougaune Barra,
Where Allua of songs rushes forth as an arrow;

In deep-vallied Desmond-a thousand wild fountains

Come down to that lake, from their home in the mountains.

There grows the wild ash, and a time-stricken willow
Looks chidingly down on the mirth of the billow;
As, like some gay child that sad monitor scorning,
It lightly laughs back to the laugh of the morning.

And its zone of dark hills-oh! to see them all bright'ning,
When the tempest flings out its red banner of lightning,
And the waters rush down, 'mid the thunder's deep rattle,
Like clans from the hills at the voice of the battle;
And brightly the fire-crested billows are gleaming,
And wildly from Mullagh the eagles are screaming,
Oh! where is the dwelling in valley, or highland,
So meet for a bard as this lone little island?

How oft when the summer sun rested on Clara,
And lit the dark heath on the hills of Ivera,

Have I sought thee, sweet spot, from my home by the ocean,
And trod all thy wilds with a minstrel's devotion,
And thought of thy bards,-when assembling together,
In the cleft of thy rocks, or the depth of thy heather,
They fled from the Saxon's dark bondage and slaughter,
And waked their last song by the rush of thy water.

High sons of the lyre, oh! how proud was the feeling,
To think while alone through that solitude stealing,
Though loftier minstrels green Erin can number,
I only awoke your wild harp from its slumber,

And mingled once more with the voice of those fountains
The songs even echo forgot on her mountains;

And gleaned each gray legend, that darkly was sleeping
Where the mist and the rain o'er their beauty were creeping.

Least bard of the hills! were it mine to inherit
The fire of thy harp, and the wing of thy spirit,

With the wrongs which like thee to our country has bound me,
Did your mantle of song fling its radiance around me,
Still, still in those wilds might young liberty rally,
And send her strong shout over mountain and valley,
The star of the west might yet rise in its glory,
And the land that was darkest be brightest in story.

I, too, shall be gone:-but my name shall be spoken
When Erin awakes, and her fetters are broken;
Some minstrel will come, in the summer eve's gleaming,
When freedom's young light on his spirit is beaming,
And bend o'er my grave with a tear of emotion,
Where calm Avon-Buee seeks the kisses of ocean,
Or plant a wild wreath, from the banks of that river,
O'er the heart, and the harp, that are sleeping forever.

LIFE IS WHAT WE MAKE IT.-ORVille Dewey.

"Unto the pure, are all things pure."

Life is what we make it. To some, this may appear to be a very singular, if not extravagant statement. You look upon this life and upon this world, and you derive from them, it may be, a very different impression. You see the earth perhaps, only as a collection of blind, obdurate, inexorable elements and powers. You look upon the mountains that stand fast forever; you look upon the seas that roll upon every shore their ceaseless tides; you walk through the annual round of the seasons; all things seem to be fixed,— summer and winter, seed-time and harvest, growth and decay, and so they are.

But does not the mind spread its own hue over all these scenes? Does not the cheerful man make a cheerful world? Does not the sorrowing man make a gloomy world? Does not every mind make its own world? Does it not, as if indeed a portion of the Divinity were imparted to it, almost create the scene around it? Its power, in fact, scarcely falls short of the theory of those philosophers, who have supposed that the world had no existence at all, but in our own minds.

So again with regard to human life;-it seems to many, probably, unconscious as they are of the mental and moral powers which control it, as if it were made up of fixed conditions, and of immense and impassable distinctions. But upon all conditions presses down one impartial law. To all situations, to all fortunes, high or low, the mind gives their character. They are in effect, not what they are in themselves, but what they are to the feelings of their possessors. The king upon his throne and amidst his court, may be a mean, degraded, miserable man; a slave to ambition, to voluptuousness, to fear, to every low passion. The peasant in his cottage, may be the real monarch,—the moral master of his fate, the free and lofty being, more than a prince in happiness, more than a king in honor. And shall the mere names which these men bear, blind us to the actual position which they occupy amidst God's creation? No: beneath

the all-powerful law of the heart, the master is often the slave; and the slave is the master.

It is the same creation, upon which the eyes of the cheerful and the melancholy man are fixed; yet how different are the aspects which it bears to them! To the one it is all beauty and gladness; "the waves of ocean roll in light, and the mountains are covered with day." It seems to him as if life went forth, rejoicing upon every bright wave, and every shining bough, shaken in the breeze. It seems as if there were more than the eye seeth; a presence of deep joy among the hills and the valleys, and upon the bright waters.

But the gloomy man, stricken and sad at heart, stands idly or mournfully gazing at the same scene, and what is it to him? The very light,

"Bright effluence of bright essence increate,”

yea, the very light seems to him as a leaden pall thrown over the face of nature. All things wear to his eye a dull, dim, and sickly aspect. The great train of the seasons is passing before him, but he sighs and turns away, as if it were the train of a funeral procession; and he wonders within himself at the poetic representations and sentimental rhapsodies that are lavished upon a world so utterly miserable.

Here then, are two different worlds, in which these two classes of beings live; and they are formed and made what they are, out of the very same scene, only by different states of mind in the beholders. The eye maketh that which it looks upon. The ear maketh its own melodies or discords. The world without reflects the world within.

Every disposition and behavior has a kind of magnetic attraction, by which it draws to itself, its like. Selfishness will hardly be a center, round which the benevolent affections will revolve; the cold-hearted may expect to be treated with coldness, and the proud with haughtiness; the passionate with anger, and the violent with rudeness; those who forget the rights of others, must not be surprised if their own are forgotten; and those who forget their dignity, who stoop to the lowest embraces of sense, must not wonder, if others are not concerned to find their prostrate honor, and to lift it up to the remembrance and respect of the world.

To the gentle, how many will be gentle; to the kind, how

many will be kind! How many does a lovely example win to goodness! How many does meekness subdue to a like temper, when they come into its presence! How many does sanctity purify! How many does it command to put away all earthly defilements, when they step into its presence! Yes, a good man will find that there is goodness in the world; an honest man will find that there is honesty ; a man of principle will find a principle of religious integrity in the hearts of others.

There are no blessings which the mind may not convert into the bitterest of evils; and there are no trials which it may not transform into the most noble and divine of blessings. There are no temptations, from which the virtue they assail, may not gain strength, instead of falling a sacrifice to their power.

THE BEST COW IN PERIL.

Old farmer B. is a stingy man,

He keeps all he gets and gets all he can;

By all his friends he is said to be

As tight as the bark on a young birch tree;

He goes to church and he rents a pew,

But the dimes that he gives to the Lord are few;

If he gets to heaven with the good and great,
He will be let in through the smallest gate.

Now, farmer B., besides drags and plows,
Keeps a number of very fine calves and cows;
He makes no butter, but sends by express
The milk to the city's thirstiness.

"What do the city folks know about milk?
They are better judges of cloth and silk;
Not a man who buys, I vow, can tell
If I water it not, or water it well.
If they do not know, then where's the sin?
I will put the sparkling water in."

Thus talked, to himself, old farmer B.;
How mean he is, young and old can see.

One night it was dark-oh! fearfully dark;
The watch-dog never came out to bark;
Old farmer B. in his bed did snore,

When rap, rap, rap, nearly shattered his door;

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