And dies within the cressy ditch,

Or on the barren moor,

The friendly Elm shall lodge and clothe That houseless man, and poor!

"Yea, this recumbent rugged trunk, That lies so long and prone, With many a fallen acorn-cup,

And mast, and firry coneThis rugged trunk shall hold its share Of mortal flesh and bone !

"A Miser hoarding heaps of gold,
But pale with ague-fears-
A Wife lamenting love's decay,
With secret cruel tears,
Distilling bitter, bitter drops

From sweets of former years—

"A Man within whose gloomy mind,
Offence had darkly sunk,
Who out of fierce Revenge's cup

Hath madly, darkly drunk

Grief, Avarice, and Hate shall sleep

Within this very trunk!

"This massy trunk that lies along, And many more must fall—

For the very knave

Who digs the grave,

The man who spreads the pall, And he who tolls the funeral bell, The Elm shall have them all!

"The tall abounding Elm that grows
In hedgerows up and down;
In field and forest, copse and park,
And in the peopled town,

With colonies of noisy rooks

That nestle on its crown.

'And well th' abounding Elm may grow In field and hedge so rife,

In forest, copse, and wooded park,
And 'mid the city's strife,

For, every hour that passes by,

Shall end a human life!"

The Phantom ends: the shade is gone;
The sky is clear and bright;
On turf, and moss, and fallen Tree,
There glows a ruddy light;

And bounding through the golden fern
The Rabbit comes to bite.

The Thrush's mate beside her sits
And pipes a merry lay;

The Dove is in the evergreens;
And on the Larch's spray
The Fly-bird flutters up and down,

To catch its tiny prey.

The gentle Hind and dappled Fawn
Are coming up the glade;

Each harmless furr'd and feather'd thing
Is glad, and not afraid—

But on my sadden'd spirit still

The Shadow leaves a shade.

A secret, vague, prophetic gloom,
As though by certain mark
I knew the fore-appointed Tree,
Within whose rugged bark

This warm and living frame shall find
Its narrow house and dark.

That mystic Tree which breathed to me
A sad and solemn sound,

That sometimes murmur'd overhead
And sometimes underground;
Within that shady Avenue

Where lofty Elms abound.

THE LAY OF THE LABORER.

It was a gloomy evening. The sun had set, angry and threatening, lighting up the horizon with lurid flame and flakes of blood-red-slowly quenched by slants of distant rain, dense and dark as segments of the old deluge. At last the whole sky was black, except the low-driving grey scud, amidst which faint streaks of lightning wandered capriciously towards their appointed aim, like young fire-fiends playing on their errands.

"There will be a storm!" whispered nature herself, as the crisp fallen leaves of autumn started up with a hollow rustle, and began dancing a wild round, with a whirlwind of dust, like some frantic orgy ushering in a revolution.

"There will be a storm!" I echoed, instinctively looking round for the nearest shelter, and making towards it at my best pace. At such times the proudest heads will bow to very low lintels; and setting dignity against a ducking, I very willingly condescended to stoop into "The Plough."

It was a small hedge alehouse, too humble for the refinement of a separate parlor. One large tap-room served for all comers, gentle or simple, if gentle folks, except from stress of weather, ever sought such a place of entertainment. Its scanty accommodations were even meaner than usual: the Plough had suffered from the hardness of the times, and exhibited the bareness of a house recently unfurnished by the broker. The aspect of the public room was cold and cheerless. There was a mere glimmer of fire in the grate, and a single unsnuffed candle stood guttering over the neck of the stone bottle in which it was stuck, in the middle of the plain deal table. The low ceiling, blackened by smoke, hung overhead like a canopy of gloomy clouds; the walls were

stained with damp, and patches of the plaster had peeled off from the naked laths. Ornament there was none, except a solitary print, gaudily daubed in body-colors, and formerly glazed, as hinted by a small triangle of glass in one corner of the black frame. The subject," the Shipwrecked Mariner," whose corpse, jacketed in bright sky-blue, rolled on a still brighter strip of yellow shingle, between two grass-green wheat-sheaves with white ears—but intended for foaming billows. Above all, the customary odors were wanting; the faint smell of beer and ale, the strong scent of spirits, the fumes of tobacco; none of them agreeable to a nice sense, but decidedly missed with a feeling akin to disappointment. Rank or vapid, they belonged to the place, representing, though in an infinitely lower key, the bouquet of Burgundy, the aroma of choice liqueurs-the breath of social enjoyment.

Yet there was no lack of company. Ten or twelve men, some young, but the majority of the middle age, and one or two advanced in years, were seated at the sordid board. As many glasses and jugs of various patterns stood before them; but mostly empty, as was the tin tankard from which they had been replenished. Only a few of the party in the neighborhood of a brown earthenware pitcher had full cups; but of the very small ale called Adam's. Their coin and credit exhausted, they were keeping up the forms of drinking and good fellowship with plain water. From the same cause, a bundle of new clay pipes lay idle on the table, unsoiled by the Indian weed.

A glance sufficed to show that the company were of the laboring class-men with tanned, furrowed faces, and hairy, freckled hands who smelt "of the earth, earthy," and were clad in fustian and leather, in velveteen and corduroy, glossy with wear or wet, soiled by brown clay and green moss, scratched and torn by brambles, wrinkled, warped, and threadbare with age, and variously patched-garments for need and decency, not show ;for if, amidst the prevailing russets, drabs, and olives, there was a gayer scrap of green, blue, or red, it was a tribute not to vanity but expediency-some fragment of military broadcloth or livery plush.

As I entered, the whole party turned their eyes upon me, and