Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine — Volume 53, No. 329, March, 1843. Various

      One look

      Upon the grave

      Of all that Fortune gave

      The loiterer took—

      Then grasps his staff. Whate'er the fire bereft,

      One blessing, sweeter than all else, is left—

       The faces that he loves! He counts them o'er—

      And, see—not one dear look is missing from that store!

      Now clasp'd the bell within the clay—

      The mould the mingled metals fill—

      Oh, may it, sparkling into day,

      Reward the labour and the skill!

      Alas! should it fail,

      For the mould may be frail—

      And still with our hope must be mingled the fear—

      And, even now, while we speak, the mishap may be near!

      To the dark womb of sacred earth

      This labour of our hands is given,

      As seeds that wait the second birth,

      And turn to blessings watch'd by heaven!

      Ah seeds, how dearer far than they

      We bury in the dismal tomb,

      Where Hope and Sorrow bend to pray

      That suns beyond the realm of day

      May warm them into bloom!

      From the steeple

      Tolls the bell,

      Deep and heavy,

      The death-knell!

      Measured and solemn, guiding up the road

      A wearied wanderer to the last abode.

      It is that worship'd wife—

      It is that faithful mother!43

      Whom the dark Prince of Shadows leads benighted,

      From that dear arm where oft she hung delighted.

      Far from those blithe companions, born

      Of her, and blooming in their morn;

      On whom, when couch'd, her heart above

      So often look'd the Mother-Love!

      Ah! rent the sweet Home's union-band,

      And never, never more to come—

      She dwells within the shadowy land,

      Who was the Mother of that Home!

      How oft they miss that tender guide,

      The care—the watch—the face—the MOTHER—

      And where she sate the babes beside,

      Sits with unloving looks—ANOTHER!

      While the mass is cooling now,

      Let the labour yield to leisure,

      As the bird upon the bough,

      Loose the travail to the pleasure.

      When the soft stars awaken,

      Each task be forsaken!

      And the vesper-bell lulling the earth into peace,

      If the master still toil, chimes the workman's release!

      Gleesome and gay,

      On the welcoming way,

      Through the wood glides the wanderer home!

      And the eye and ear are meeting,

      Now, the slow sheep homeward bleating—

      Now, the wonted shelter near,

      Lowing the lusty-fronted steer;

      Creaking now the heavy wain,

      Reels with the happy harvest grain.

      Which with many-coloured leaves,

      Glitters the garland on the sheaves;

      And the mower and the maid

      Bound to the dance beneath the shade!

      Desert street, and quiet mart;—

      Silence is in the city's heart;

      Round the taper burning cheerly,

      Gather the groups HOME loves so dearly;

      And the gate the town before

      Heavily swings with sullen roar!

      Though darkness is spreading

      O'er earth—the Upright

      And the Honest, undreading,

      Look safe on the night.

      Which the evil man watching in awe,

      For the Eye of the Night is the Law!

      Bliss-dower'd: O daughter of the skies,

      Hail, holy ORDER, whose employ

      Blends like to like in light and joy—

      Builder of Cities, who of old

      Call'd the wild man from waste and wold.

      And in his hut thy presence stealing,

      Roused each familiar household feeling;

      And, best of all the happy ties,

      The centre of the social band,—

       The Instinct of the Fatherland!

      United thus—each helping each,

      Brisk work the countless hands for ever;

      For nought its power to strength can teach,

      Like Emulation and Endeavour!

      Thus link'd the master with the man,

      Each in his rights can each revere,

      And while they march in freedom's