ELIZA COOK.

TRY AGAIN.

KING BRUCE of Scotland flung himself down
In a lonely mood to think:

"Tis true he was a monarch, and wore a crown,
But his heart was beginning to sink.

For he had been trying to do a great deed
To make his people glad ;

He had tried and tried, but couldn't succeed,
And so he became quite sad.

He flung himself down in low despair,

As grieved as man could be;

And after a while as he pondered there,

"I'll give it all up," said he.

Now just at the moment a spider dropped,

With its silken cobweb clue,

And the king in the midst of his thinking stopped To see what the spider would do.

'Twas a long way up to the ceiling dome,

And it hung by a rope so fine,

That how it would get to its cobweb home,
King Bruce could not divine.

It soon began to cling and crawl

Straight up with strong endeavour,
But down it came, with a slipping sprawl,
As near to the ground as ever.

Up, up it ran, not a second it stayed,
To utter the least complaint,

Till it fell still lower, and there it laid,
A little dizzy and faint.

Its head grew steady-again it went,
And travelled a half yard higher.

ELIZA COOK.

"Twas a delicate thread it had to tread, And a road where its feet would tire. Again it fell and swung below,

But again it quickly mounted, Till

up and down, now fast, now slow,
Nine brave attempts were counted.
"Sure," cried the king, "that foolish thing
Will strive no more to climb,

When it toils so hard to reach and cling,
And tumbles every time."

But

up the insect went once more,

Ah me, 'tis an anxious minute,

He's only a foot from his cobweb door,
Oh, say will he lose or win it!

Steadily, steadily, inch by inch,
Higher and higher he got,

And a bold little run at the very last pinch,
Put him into his native spot.
"Bravo, bravo," the king cried out,
"All honour to those who try!

The spider up there defied despair,

He conquer'd, and why shouldn't I?"

And Bruce of Scotland braced his mind,
And gossips tell the tale,

That he tried once more as he tried before,
And that time he did not fail.

Pay goodly heed, all you who read,
And beware of saying, "I can't;"
"Tis a cowardly word, and apt to lead
To Idleness, Folly, and Want.
Whenever you find your heart despair
Of doing some goodly thing,

Con over this strain, try bravely again,
And remember the Spider and King.

137

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

TO THE CORAL INSECT.

TOIL on toil on! ye ephemeral train,

Who build in the tossing and treacherous main;
Toil on,-for the wisdom of man ye mock,
With your sand-bas'd structures and domes of rock.
Your columns the fathomless fountains lave
And your arches spring up to the crested wave;
Ye're a puny race, thus to boldly rear

A fabric so vast in a realm so drear.

But why do ye plant, 'neath the billows dark,
The wrecking reef for the gallant bark?
There are snares enough on the tented field,
'Mid the blossom'd sweets that the valleys yield;
There are serpents to coil, ere the flowers are up;
There's a poison-drop in man's purest cup,
There are foes that watch for his cradle-breath,
And why need ye sow the floods with death?

Ye build-ye build-but ye enter not in;
Like the tribes whom the desert devour'd in their sin,
From the land of promise ye fade and die,
Ere its verdure gleams forth on your every eye,
As the kings of the cloud-crown'd pyramid
Their noteless bones in oblivion hid:

Ye slumber unmark'd 'mid the desolate main,
While the wonder and pride of your works remain.

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

139

MISSIONS.

LIGHT for the dreary vales

Of ice-bound Labrador!

Where the frost-king breathes on the slippery sails, And the mariner wakes no more;

Lift high the lamp that never fails,

To that dark and sterile shore.

Light for the forest child!

An outcast though he be,

From the haunts where the sun of his childhood smil'd, And the country of the free;

Pour the hope of Heaven o'er his desert wild,

For what home on earth has he?

Light for the hills of Greece!

Light for that trampled clime

Where the rage of the spoiler refus'd to cease
Ere it wreck'd the boast of time;

If the Moslem hath dealt the gift of peace,
Can ye grudge your boon sublime?

Light on the Hindoo shed!

On the maddening idol train; The flame of the suttee is dire and red,

And the fakir faints with pain;

And the dying moan on their cheerless bed,
By the Ganges lav'd in vain.

Light for the Persian sky!

The Sophi's wisdom fades,

140

MRS. SIGOURNEY.

And the pearls of Ormus are poor to buy

Armour when Death invades ;

Hark! hark!-'tis the sainted Martyn's sigh
From Ararat's mournful shades.

Light for the Burman vales;

For the islands of the sea!

For the coast where the slave-ship fills its sails
With sighs of agony,

And her kidnapp'd babes the mother wails
'Neath the lone banana-tree!

Light for the ancient race

Exil'd from Zion's rest!

Homeless they roam from place to place,
Benighted and oppress'd;

They shudder at Sinai's fearful base;
Guide them to Calvary's breast.

Light for the darken'd earth!

Ye bless'd, its beams who shed,

Shrink not, till the day-spring hath its birth,

Till, wherever the footstep of man doth tread,

Salvation's banner spread broadly forth,

Shall gild the dream of the cradle-bed,

And clear the tomb

From its lingering gloom,

For the aged to rest his weary head.