WORK-HORSES IN A PARK ON SUNDAY.

'TIS Sabbath-day, the poor man walks
Blithe from his cottage door,

And to his prattling young ones talks
As they skip on before.

The father is a man of joy,

From his week's toil released;

And jocund is each little boy
To see his father pleased.

But, looking to a field at hand,

Where the grass grows rich and high, A no less merry Sabbath band

Of horses met my eye.

Poor skinny beasts! that go

all week

With loads of earth and stones, Bearing, with aspect dull and meek, Hard work and cudgel'd bones;

But now let loose to roam athwart
The farmer's clover lea,

With whisking tails, and jump and snort,
They speak a clumsy glee.

Lolling across each other's necks,
Some look like brothers dear;
Others are full of flings and kicks-
Antics uncouth and queer.

One tumbles wild from side to side,
With hoofs tossed to the sun,
Cooling his old gray seamy hide,
And making dreadful fun.

I thought how pleasant 'twas to see,
On this bright Sabbath-day,
Man and his beasts alike set free
To take some harmless play;

And how their joys were near the same-
The same in show at least-
Hinting that we may sometimes claim

Too much above the beast.

If like in joys, beasts surely must
Be like in sufferings too,
And we can not be right or just,
To treat them as we do.

Thus did God's day serve as a span
All things to bind together,

And make the humble brute to man
A patient pleading brother.

Oh if to us one precious thing,
And not to them, is given,
Kindness to them will be a wing
Το carry it on to Heaven!

-R. CHAMBERS.

BROTHERLY LOVE.

WE are but two-the others sleep
Through death's untroubled night;
We are but two-oh let us keep
The link that binds us bright!

Heart leaps to heart-the sacred flood
That warms us is the same;

That good old man-his honest blood
Alike we fondly claim.

We in one mother's arms were locked-
Long be her love repaid!

In the same cradle we were rocked-
Round the same hearth we played.

Our boyish sports were all the same,
Each little joy and wo;

Let manhood keep alive the flame
Lit up so long ago.

We are but one-be that the bond

To hold us till we die!

Shoulder to shoulder let us stand,
Till side by side we lie.

-CHARLES SPRAGUE

THE BETTER LAND.

"I HEAR thee speak of the better land,
Thou call'st its children a happy band;
Mother! oh where is that radiant shore-
Shall we not seek it, and weep no more?
Is it where the flower of the orange blows,
And the fireflies glance through the myrtle boughs?"
-"Not there, not there, my child!”

"Is it where the feathery palm-trees rise,
And the date grows ripe under sunny skies;
Or 'midst the green islands of glittering seas,
Where fragrant forests perfume the breeze;
And strange bright birds, on their starry wings,
Bear the rich hues of all glorious things?"

"Not there, not there, my child!"

"Is it far away in some region old,

Where the rivers wander o'er sands of gold?—

Where the burning rays of the ruby shine,
And the diamond lights up the secret mine,
And the pearl gleams forth from the coral strand?-
Is it there, sweet mother, that better land?"

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"Not there, not there, my child!"

Eye hath not seen it, my gentle boy! Ear hath not heard its deep songs of joy ; Dreams cannot picture a world so fairSorrow and death may not enter there; Time doth not breathe on its fadeless bloom, Far beyond the clouds, and beyond the tomb, -It is there, it is there, my child!"

-MRS HEMANS.

ODE ON THE PASSIONS.

WHEN Music, heavenly maid! was young,
While yet in early Greece she sung,
The Passions oft, to hear her shell,
Thronged around her magic cell;
Exulting, trembling, raging, fainting,
Possessed beyond the muse's painting;
By turns they felt the glowing mind
Disturbed, delighted, raised, refined;
Till once, 'tis said, when all were fired,
Filled with fury, rapt, inspired,