'Oh, but to breathe the breath Of the cowslip and primrose sweet With the sky above my head, And the grass beneath my feet, For only one short hour To feel as I used to feel, Before I knew the woes of want And the walk that costs a meal! 'Oh, but for one short hour! A respite however brief! No blessed leisure for Love or Hope, But only time for Grief! A little weeping would ease my heart, But in their briny bed My tears must stop, for every drop Hinders needle and thread!' With fingers weary and worn, With eyelids heavy and red, A woman sat, in unwomanly rags, Plying her needle and thread-- Stitch--stitch--stitch! In poverty, hunger, and dirt, And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,-- Would that its tone could reach the Rich! She sang this 'Song of the Shirt!' THE STARS ARE WITH THE VOYAGER THE stars are with the voyager, Wherever he may sail; The moon is constant to her time, The sun will never fail, But follow, follow, round the world, The green earth and the sea; So love is with the lover's heart, Wherever he may be. Wherever he may be, the stars Must daily lose their light, The moon will veil her in the shade, The sun will set at night; The sun may set, but constant love Will shine when he's away, So that dull night is never night, And day is brighter day. RUTH SHE stood breast high amid the corn, Clasped by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won. On her cheek an autumn flush Deeply ripened--such a blush In the midst of brown was born-- Like red poppies grown with corn. Round her eyes her tresses fell, Which were blackest none could tell, But long lashes veiled a light That had else been all too bright. And her hat, with shady brim, Made her tressy forehead dim:-- hus she stood amid the stooks, Praising God with sweetest looks:-- Sure, I said, Heav'n did not mean Where I reap thou shouldst but glean, Lay thy sheaf adown and come Share my harvest and my home. _LORD MACAULAY_ IVRY Now glory to the Lord of Hosts, from whom all glories are! And glory to our sovereign liege, King Henry of Navarre! Now let there be the merry sound of music and of dance, Through thy cornfields green, and sunny vines, oh pleasant land of France! And thou, Rochelle, our own Rochelle, proud city of the waters, Again let rapture light the eyes of all thy mourning daughters. As thou wert constant in our ills, be joyous in our joy, For cold, and stiff, and still are they who wrought thy walls annoy. Hurrah! hurrah! a single field hath turned the chance of war, Hurrah! hurrah! for Ivry, and Henry of Navarre.