for the past, but gladdens in the present, and sings a holy song, like one of the songs of Zion; for both trust that, ere the sun brings another summer, their feet will be wandering by the waters of eternal life.

Thus haply might arise verse and air of Scotland's old pathetic melodies."

But our concern at this moment is not with songs in general, but with Song in its connection with Industry; and the catalogue of songs of all the trades of late years is a large one. And to which of the pursuits of Industry can we turn, and not find food for the imagination?-the sailor who unfurls his sails and spreads them like the pinions of some glorious bird making a highway for nations over the seas, mapping the course of civilization :—the Woodman felling the tall tree of the forest, and thus laying in the wild and inaccessible regions of Nature the foundations of a future city-the Miner who, from the bowels of the earth, extracts iron, the most precious of all metals; and coal, one of the most precious of all blessings.From immemorial ages, a blessing has been pronounced upon the Plough and "the jolly dusty Miller," long before the paddles of steam-revolving wheels and clattering pistons were set in motion, when the wind or water was compelled into the service of the mill-and the Blacksmith, hammer in hand-and the Fisherman, coasting out upon the waters, and the poor pining Weaver at his loom ;-in these, and in all the thousand operations of toil, wherever Man is asserting his dominion over Nature; there is a theme for song :nay, this is the substance of all song-for all song is of the nature of triumph; and all labour is the conquest of Man-the reduction of disorder to harmony and proportion.

Let us look at a few of these Lyrics of Labour. Longfellow sings the Blacksmith

D

"Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell

When the evening sun is low.

Toiling,―rejoicing;-sorrowing—

Onward through life he goes;

Each morning sees some task begun,—
Each evening sees it close:

Something attempted-something done-
Has earned a night's repose.

"Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend!
For the lesson thou hast taught;

Thus at the flaming forge of Life,
Our fortunes must be wrought:
Thus, on the sounding anvil, shaped
Each burning deed and thought."

Far away from the sound of the blacksmith's hammer, from the still and blessed retreat of inland villages-out, out, upon the briny deep, the Fisherman of Whittier sings in a different strain,—

"There we'll drop our lines, and gather
Old Ocean's treasures in,

Where'er the mottled mackerel
Turns up a steel-dark fin;
Where'er the brown cod glideth
Amidst his scaly clan,

We will reap the North-land's harvest,
As her reapers only can.

"Our wet hands spread the carpet,

And light the hearth of home:
From our fish, as in the old time,
The silver coin shall come;
As the demon fled the chamber
Where the fish of Tobit lay,
So ours, from all our dwellings,
Shall frighten Want away.

"In the darkness, as the daylight,—
On the water, or on land,

God's eye is looking on us,

And beneath us is His hand:
Death will find us, soon or later,
On the deck, or in the cot;
And we cannot meet him better

Than in working out our lot."

It is the same noble-hearted and clear-voiced American singer who chaunts in true poetry the praise of Shoemakers,

"Rap, rap! your stout and bluff brogan!

With footsteps slow and weary,

May wander where the sky's blue span
Shuts down upon the prairie.

Your slippers shine on Beauty's foot

By Saratoga's fountain,

Or lead, like snow-flakes falling mute,
The dance on Catskill mountain.

"The red brick to the mason's hand,
The brown earth to the tiller's,

The shoe, in yours, shall wealth command,
Like fairy Cinderella's!

As they, who spurn'd the household maid,
Beheld the crown upon her,

So all shall see your toil repaid

With hearth, and home, and honour.

"Then let the toast be freely quaffed
In water, cool and brimming :-
'All honour to the good old craft,
Its merry men and women!'
Call out again your long array

In the old time's pleasant manner;
Once more, on gay St. Crispin's day,
Fling out his blazoned banner."

One other of these labour chaunts, and this selection from Barry Cornwall.

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

“Weave, brothers, weave !—Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty, but no perfume!

Come, show us the rose, with a hundred dyes,
The lily, that hath no spot;

The violet, deep as your true loves' eyes,
And the little forget-me-not!

Sing, brothers, sing! weave and sing!
'Tis good both to sing and to weave:
'Tis better to work than live idle;
'Tis better to sing than to grieve.

"Weave, brothers, weave !-Weave, and bid
The colours of sunset glow !

Let grace in each gliding thread be hid,

Let beauty about you blow !

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both firm and sure,

And time nor chance shall your work untwine,
But all-like a truth-endure !

So-sing, &c.

"Weave, brothers, weave !-Toil is ours;

But toil is the lot of man.

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king

To the peasant that delves the soil,

That knows half the pleasure the seasons bring,
If he have not his share of toil!

So-sing, &c."

But the glories of labour have been celebrated in altogether another manner: these which we have cited might well be set to music, and thundered or lilted at the forge, or on the deck-at the loom, or in the stall. But the songs of other writers have made labour truly dramatic. Each of the varying actions become a symbol of something higher; the shadow of the Infinite may be seen over and through all the weavings of the workers; the scund and the action have been caught by some writers, and the roll, roar, and tramp of the machinery; and the mechanics live most vividly in the verses. To this "The Forging of the Anchor," by Fergusson, approaches; nay more-in its vehemency, it blazes, and rushes, and roars; the flames pant and heave with the energy of the strong flame, and the victorious blacksmith.