Bitter toil was his from birth,
Dearly bought his homely mirth,
While his master was of earth--
Now he's of the sky.

Death knocked at his door at night,
With his crushing hand of might,
Woke him to that morning light
Which can know no noon!

When that sacred morning beam
Wakes his spirit, life shall seem
But a dreary changeful dream--
Soon o'er, and not too soon!

Patiently for few long years,
Struggling with earth's giant fears,
With hands too busy to wipe tears,
Met he life's long shock.

Yet not all blank and desolate
Was this poor man's earthly state;
Hope, toil, content, can soften fate,
As the moss the rock.

O! lost Brother! still and cold,
Sunk like rain into the mould,
Silently, unseen, untold--
Thou 'rt a GOD-sown seed!

It is a sad sight to look upon the corpse of a laborer, cut down in the
midst of a toilsome life; his hard, knotty hands clasped upon the still
breast, and the strong limbs laid in serene repose. And yet how happy the
change! No longer does he ask leave to toil; no longer is he at war with
poverty, for death has made it a drawn battle. He 'rests from his labors'
where the rich and the poor meet together, and he hears no more the voice
of the oppressor. . . . PERHAPS our readers will have observed that the
_Sketches of East Florida_ are from no common pen. The description which
has been given by the writer, of the delicious climate in that sunny
region, may to many 'Northeners' seem exaggerated; but such is not the
fact. A friend writing recently from St. Augustine, thus playfully alludes
to the effect which the climate produces upon a New-Yorker: 'If a
business-man could be caught up from the whirl of Broadway, and dropped in
a warm climate, say that of St. Augustine, and left under a fig-tree to
his own reflections, his first thought doubtless would be for an omnibus
'right up.' 'Rather queer!' he would say; 'a hot sun, sandy street, and
not a carriage to be seen! There's a man out in his slippers, and a woman
with her head tied up in a handkerchief--may-be a night-cap; probably some
old Dutch settlers that went to-sleep with RIP VAN WINKLE. Wild turkeys,
as I live, all about the market!--and oh, LORD! there's a little nigger
with only a shirt on! Halloo there! you little nigger! tell me the way to
the Broadway coaches! No coaches? no omnibii? Well, where's your
five-o'clock boats?--where's