j^EA^LWORT-y/E A^INESS, 
» UT to be still! oh, but to cease awhile 
The panting breath and hurrying steps of life, 
The sights, the sounds, the struggle, and the strife 
Of hourly being; the sharp biting file 
Of action fritting on the tightened chain 
Of rough existence ; all that is not pain, 
But utter weariness 1 oh ! to be free, 
But for a while, from conscious entity! 
To shut the banging doors and windows wide 
Of restless sense, and let the soul abide, 
Darkly and stilly, for a little space, 
Gathering its strength up to pursue the race : 
Oh, heavens 1 to rest a moment, but to rest, 
- From this quick, gasping life, were to be blest! 
F. A. Kemble. 
Ragwort—JLabour. 
9c HIS world has work for us : we must refuse 
No honest task, nor uncongenial toil. 
Fear not your foot to tire, nor robe to soil; 
Nor let your hands grow white for want of use. 
Thomas Ashe. 
2 (O 
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