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"Work-work-work! From weary chime to chime,

Work-work-work-
As prisoners work for crime !

Band, and gusset, and seam,-
Seam, and gusset, and band,—

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumb'd,

As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright

While underneath the eaves The brooding swallows cling,

As if to show me their sunny backs
And twit me with the spring.

"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 and 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."

A STARVATION ANTHEM FOR THE ROYAL CHRISTENING.

Bring forth the babe in pomp and lace,

While thousands starve and curse the light!

But what of that?-on royal face

Shame knows no blush, however slight. Bring forth the babe; a nation's moans

Will ring sweet music in his ear,
For well we know a people's groans
To royal ears were always dear.

Bring forth the babe;-down, courtiers, down!
And bow your lackey knees in dust
Before a child's beslobbered gown-
(Our children cannot find a crust!)

When Christ was born, no servile throng
Around the Saviour's manger met;
No flatterers raised their fulsome song,-
But what was Christ to Albert's pet?

God, who has heard the widow's moan,-
God, who has heard the orphan's cry;
Thou, too, dost sit upon a throne,

But none round thee of famine die!
Things like this babe of royal birth,
Who boast their princely "right divine,"
Are but thy parodies on earth-

Their's is oppression-mercy thine.

Bring forth the babe! From foreign lands
Fresh kingly vampires flock to greet
This new one in its nurse's hands,

(For royal mothers give no teat.)
Bring forth the toy of princely whim,
And let your prayers mount night and day;
For ought we not to pray for him

Who'll prey on us enough some day?

O! who would grudge to squander gold
On such a glorious babe as this?
What though our babes be starved and cold,
They have no claim on earthly bliss.
Ours are no mongrel German breed,

But English born and English bred;
Then let them live and die in need,
While the plump Coburg thing is fed!
Christen the babe, Archbishop proud,

Strange servant of the lowly Christ; Thousands are to your purse allowed;

For him the smallest loaf sufficed. Though holy water's scanty now,

My lord you may dismiss your fears;

Take to baptize the infant's brow,
A starving people's bitter tears!

SONNET.

BY FRANCES ANN BUTLER.

Whene'er I recollect the happy time
When you and I held converse dear together,
There come a thousand thoughts of sunny weather,
Of early blossoms, and the fresh year's prime.
Your memory lives for ever in my mind
With all the fragrant beauties of the spring,
With od'rous lime and silver hawthorn twin'd,
And many a noon-day woodland wandering.
There's not a thought of you, but brings along
Some sunny dream of river, field and sky:
"Tis wafted on the blackbird's sunset song,
Or some wild snatch of ancient melody.
And as I date it still, our love arose
'Twixt the last violet and the earliest rose.

THE EMIGRANT'S FAMILY. One of the strongest peculiarities-indeed, I may say passions of the Irish, is their devoted fondness - for their offspring. A curious illustration of this occurred to me on my recent journey through the Northern lakes. It happened to be what sailors call very dirty weather, finished up by a tremendous gale, which obliged us to seek a shelter at a lump of aboriginal barrenness, called Manitou Island, where we were obliged to remain five days. There were a few deck passengers-between five and six hundred; and inasmuch as they had only provided themselves with barely sufficient for the average time, provisions became alarmingly scarce, and no possibility of a supply. To be sure, there was one venerable ox-a sort of semi-petrifaction, an organic remnant-a poor attenuated, hornless, sightless, bovine patriarch, who obligingly yielded up his small residue of existence for our benefit. Indeed, it was quite a mercy that we arrived to relieve him from a painful state of suspense; for so old and powerless was he, that if his last breadth had not been extracted, he certainly would not have drawn it by himself Well, as you may suppose, there was considerable consternation on board. Short-very short allowance was adopted to meet the contingency, and the poor deck passengers had a terrible time of it. Amongst the latter was an Irish emigrant, with his wife and three beautiful children, the eldest about seven years, all without the smallest subsistence, except what the charity of their fellow passengers could afford them; and as they were scantily supplied, it can readily be imagined how miserably off was the poor family. However, it so happened that the beauty and intelligence of the children attracted the attention of one of our lady passengers, who had them occasionally brought into the cabin, and their hunger appeased. Gleesome, bright eyed little creatures they were, scrupulously clean, despite the poverty of their parents, all life and happiness, and in blissful ignorance of the destitution by which they were surrounded.

Is it support thim, sir?" he replied. "Lord bless ye, I never supported thim. They git supported some how or another; they've niver bin hungry yit-when they are it'll be time enough to grumble."

Irish all over, thought I-to-day has enough to do, let to-morrow look out for itself.

"Well then," I resumed, with a determined plunge, "would it be a relief to you to part from them?" I had mistaken my mode of attack. He started, turned pale, and with a wild glare in his eyes, lite. rally screamed out:

A relief! God be good to uz, what d'ye mean? A relief? would it be a relief d'ye think, to have the hand chopped from me body; or the heart tore out of me breast?"

"You don't understand us," interposed my philan"Should one be enabled to thropic companion. place your child in ease and comfort, would you interfere with its well-doing?"

The tact of woman! She had touched the chord of paternal solicitude; the poor fellow was silent, twisted his head about and looked al bewildered. The struggle between a father's love and his child's interest was evident and affecting. At last he said: "God bless ye me lady, and all that thinks of the poor! Heaven knows I'd be glad to betther the child; it is'nt in regard to myself, but-had'nt I better go and speak to Mary; she's the mother of the child, and t'would be onreasonable to be givin' away her children afore her face and she not know nothing of the mather."

Away with you then," said I, "and bring back word as soon as possible." In about an hour he returned, but with eyes red and swollen; and features pale from excitement and agitation.

"6 Well," inquired I, what success?"

Bedad 'twas a hard struggle, sir," said he, "but it's for the child's good, and Heaven give us strength to bear it.”

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Very good, and which is it to be?"

Why, sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, and she One day delighted with her proteges, the lady hap-thinks as Nora here is the ouldest she won't miss pened to say, half jestingly, "I wonder would this the mother so much, and if ye'll jist let her take a poor man part with one of those little darlings? I partin' kiss she'd give her to yez wid a blessin." So my poor fellow took his children away, to look should like to adopt it." "I don't know," said I; "suppose we make the at one of them for the last time. It was not long ere he returned, but when he did he was leading the inquiry."

The man was sent for, and the delicate business second oldest. thus opened.

"How's this?" said I, have you changed your

My good friend," said the lady, "you are very mind?" poor, are you not?"

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His answer was peculiarly Irish: poor! my lady," said he. "Be the powers of pewther! if there's a poorer man nor myself troublin' the world, God pity both of us, for we'd be about aquail.”

"Then you must find it difficult to support your children," said I, making a long jump towards our object.

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"Not exactly changed me mind, sir," he replied, but I've changed the crather. You see sir, I've been spakin' to Mary, and whin it come to the ind, be goxey! she could'nt part with Norah, at all; they've got use to aich other's ways; but here's little Biddy-she's purtier far if she'll do as well." "It's all the same," said I, «let Biddy remain."

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May Heaven be yer guardian !” cried he, snatch

ing her up in his arms, and giving her one long and hearty kiss. God be kind to thim that's kind to you, and thim that offers you hurt or harm, may their sowl niver sec St. Pether!" So the bereaved father rushed away, and all that night the child remained with us; but early the next morning my friend Pat reappeared, and this time he had his youngest child, a mere baby, snugly cuddled up in

his arms.

What's the matter now?" said I.

THE WATER DRINKER'S SONG.

O! water for me! Bright water for me!
And wine for the tremulous debauchee!
It cooleth the brow, it cooleth the brain,
It maketh the faint one strong again;
It comes o'er the sense like a breeze from the sea,
All freshness like infant purity;

O water, bright water for me, for me!
Give wine, give wine to the debauchee !
Fill to the brim! Fill, fill to the brim!
Let the flowing crystal kiss the rim,
For I, like the flowers, drink naught but dew,
And my hand is steady and my eye is true.

Why, thin, sir," said he, with an expression of the most comic anxiety, "axin yer honor's pardon | for bein' so wake-hearted, whin begin to think of Biddy's eyes-look at thim, they're the image of her mother's beda l-I could'nt let her go; but here's little Paudeen-he won't be much trouble to any one, for if he takes after his mother, he'll have the brightest eye and the softest heart on the top of creation; and if he takes after his father, he'll have | And wine for the tremulous debauchee! a purty hard fist on a broad pair of shoulders to push his way through the world. Take him, sir, and gi' me Biddy."

"Just as you like," said I, having pretty good guess how matters would eventuate. So he took away his pet Biddy, and handed us the little toddling urchin. This chirping little vagabond won't be long with us thought I. Ten minutes had scarcely elapsed ere Pat rushed into the cabin, and seizing little Paudeen in his arms, he turned to me, and with large tears bubbling in his eyes, cried:

"Look at him sir-jist look at him--it's the youngest. Ye would'nt have the heart to keep him from uz. The long and short of it is, I've been spakin to Mary. I did'nt like to let Biddy go; but be me sowl, neither could live half a day without little Paudeen. No, sir; no, we can bear the bitterness of poverty, but we can't part from our children, unless it's the will of Providence to take them from

uz."

A FUNERAL.

BY HENRY ALFORD.

Slowly and softly let the music go

As ye wind upwards to the gray church tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low-
Tread lightly on the path-side daisy flower;
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunn'd drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour, then turn away,—
Go to hope's prison--and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day

Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old--
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.

water, bright water's a mine of wealth, And the ores it yields are vigor and health; So water, pure water, for me, for me!

Fill again to the brim again to the brim!
For water strengtheneth life and limb;
To the days of the aged it addeth length,
To the might of the mighty it addeth strength;
It freshens the heart, it brightens the sight,
'Tis like quaffing a goblet of morning light;
So, water, I will drink naught but thee,
Thou parent of health and energy!

When over the hills, like a gladsome bride,
Morning walks forth in her beauty's pride,
And, leading a band of laughing hours,
Brushes the dew from the nodding flowers,
O cheerly then my voice is heard,
Mingling with that of the soaring bird,
Who flingeth abroad his matins loud,
As he freshens his wing in the cold gray cloud.
But when evening has quitted her sheltering yew,
Drowsily flying and waving anew

Her dusky meshes o'er land and sea-
How gently, O! sleep, fall thy poppies on me!
For I drink water, pure, cold and bright,
And my dreams are of Heaven the livelong night;
So hurrah for thee, water! hurrah! hurrah!
Thou art silver and gold, thou art ribband and star!

His words seem'd oracles

That pierced their bosoms; and each man would turn
And gaze in wonder on his neighbour's face
That with the like dumb wonder answer'd him :
Then some would weep, some shout, some, deeper
touch'd,

Keep down the cry with motion of their hands,
In fear but to have lost a syllable.

The evening came, yet there the people stood,
As if 'twere noon, and they the marble sea,
Sleeping without a wave. You could have heard
The beating of your pulses while he spoke.

GEORGE CROLY.

A GLANCE BEHIND THE CURTAIN.

EY JAMES RUSSEL LOWELL.

We see but half the causes of our deeds,
Seeking them wholly in the outer life,
And heedless of the encircling spirit-world,
Which, though unseen, is felt, and sows in us
All germs of pure and world-wide purposes.
From one stage of our being to the next
We pass unconscious o'er a slender bridge,
The momentary work of unseen hands,
Which crumbles down behind us; looking back,
We see the other shore, the gulf between,
And, marvelling how we won to where we stand,
Content ourselves to call the builder Chance.
We trace the wisdom to the apple's fall,
Not to the birth-throes of a mighty Truth
Which, for long ages in blank Chaos dumb,
Yet yearned to be incarnate, and had found
At last a spirit meet to be the womb

From which it might leap forth to bless mankind,
Not to the soul of Newton, ripe with all
The hoarded thoughtfulness of earnest years,
And waiting but one ray of sunlight more
To blossom fully.

But whence came that ray?
We call our sorrows Destiny, but ought
Rather to name our high successes so.
Only the instincts of great souls are Fate,
And have predestined sway: all other things,
Except by leave of us, could never be.
For Destiny is but the breath of God
Still moving in us, the last fragment left
Of our unfallen nature, waking oft
Within our thought, to beckon us beyond
The narrow circle of the seen and known,
And always tending to a noble end,
As all things must that overrule the soul,
And for a space unseat the helmsman, Will.
The fate of England and of freedom once
Seemed wavering in the heart of one plain man:
One step of his, and the great dial hand,
That marks the destined progress of the world
In the eternal round from wisdom on
To higher wisdom, had been made to pause
A hundred years. That step he did not take,-
He knew not why, nor we, but only God,-
And lived to make his simple oaken chair
More terrible and grandly beautiful,
More full of majesty, than any throne,
Before or after, of a British king.

Upon the pier stood two stern visaged men, Looking to where a little craft lay moored, Swayed by the lazy current of the Thames, Which weltered by in muddy listlessness. Grave men they were, and battlings of fierce thought

Had trampled out all softness from their brows,
And ploughed rough furrows there before their time,
For other crop than such as homebred Peace
Sows broadcast in the willing soil of Youth.
Care, not of self, but of the common weal,
Had robbed their eyes of youth, and left instead
A look of patient power and iron will,
And something fiercer, too, that gave broad hint
Of the plain weapons girded at their sides.
The younger had an aspect of command,-
Not such as trickles down, a slender stream,
In the shrunk channel of a great descent,-
But such as lies entowered in heart and head,
And an arm prompt to do the 'hests of both.
His was a brow where gold were out of place,
And yet it seemed right worthy of a crown,
(Though he despised such,) were it only made
Of iron, or some serviceable stuff

That would have matched his sinewy, brown face.
The elder, although such he hardly seemed,
Had a clear, honest face, whose rough hewn strength
(Care makes so little of some five short years,)
Was mildened by the scholar's wiser heart
To sober courage, such as best befits
The unsullied temper of a well taught-mind,
Yet so remained that one could plainly guess
The hushed volcano smouldering underneath.
He spoke the other, hearing, kept his gaze
Still fixed, as on some problem in the sky.

:

"O, CROMWELL, we are fallen on evil times! There was a day when England had wide room For honest men as well as foolish kings; But now the uneasy stomach of the time Turns squeamish at them both. Therefore let us Seek out that savage clime where men as yet Are free: there sleeps the vessel on the tide, Her languid canvass drooping for the wind; Give us but that, and what need we to fear This Order of the Council? The free waves Will not say, No, to please a wayward king, Nor will the winds turn traitors at his beck: All things are fitly cared for, and the Lord Will watch as kindly o'er the Exodus Of us his servants now, as in old time. We have no cloud or fire, and haply we May not pass dry-shod through the ocean-stream; But, saved or lost, all things are in His hand." So spake he, and meantime the other stood With wide gray eyes still reading the blank air, As if upon the sky's blue wall he saw Some mystic sentence, written by a hand, Such as of old did awe the Assyrian king, Girt with his satraps in the blazing feast.

"HAMPDEN! a moment since, my purpose was To fly with thee,- for I will call it flight, Nor flatter it with any smoother name,

But something in me bids me not to go;
And I am one, thou knowest, who, unmoved
By what the weak deem omens, yet give heed
And reverence due to whatsoe'er my soul
Whispers of warning to the inner ear.
Moreover, as I know that God brings round
His purposes in ways undreamed by us,
And makes the wicked but his instruments
To hasten on their swift and sudden fall,
I see the beauty of his providence
In the King's order: blind, he will not let
His doom part from him, but must bid it stay
As 't were a cricket, whose enlivening chirp
He loved to hear beneath his very hearth.
Why should we fly? Nay, why not rather stay
And rear again our Zion's crumbled walls,
Not, as of old the walls of Thebes were built,
By minstrel twanging, but, if need should be,
With the more potent music of our swords?
Think'st thou that score of men beyond the sea
Claim more God's care than all of England here?
No when He moves his arm, it is to aid
Whole peoples, heedless if a few be crushed,
As some are ever when the destiny

Of man takes one stride onward nearer home.
Believe it, 't is the mass of men He loves;
And, where there is most sorrow and most want,
Where the high heart of man is trodden down
The most, 't is not because He hides his face
From them in wrath, as purblind teachers prate :
Not so there most is He, for there is He
Most needed. Men who seek for Fate abroad
Are not so near his heart as they who dare
Frankly to face her when she faces them,

And cling around the soul, as the sky clings
Round the mute earth, forever beautiful,
And, if o'erclouded, only to burst forth
More all-embracingly divine and clear:
Get but the truth once uttered, and 't is like
A star newborn, that drops into its place,
And which, once circling in its placid round,
Not all the tumult of the earth can shake.

What should we do in that small colony
Of pinched fanatics, who would rather choose
Freedom to clip an inch more from their hair,
Than the great chance of setting England free?
Not there, amid the stormy wilderness,

Should we learn wisdom; or, if learned, what room
To put it into act,-else worse than naught?
We learn our souls more, tossing for an hour
Upon this huge and ever-vexed sea

Of human thought, where kingdoms go to wreck
Like fragile bubbles yonder in the stream,
Than in a cycle of New England sloth,
Broke only by some petty Indian war,
Or quarrel for a letter, more or less,

In some hard word, which, spelt in either way,
Not their most learned clerks can understand.
New times demand new measures and new men ;
The world advances, and in time outgrows
The laws that in our fathers' day were best;
And, doubtless, after us, some purer scheme
Will be shaped out by wiser men than we,
Made wiser by the steady growth of truth.
We cannot bring Utopia at once;
But better, almost, be at work in sin,
Than in a brute inaction browse and sleep.

On their own threshold, where their souls are strong No man is born into the world, whose work

To grapple with and throw her; as I once,

Being yet a boy, did throw this puny king,

Who now has grown so dotard as to deem

That he can wrestle with an angry realm,
And throw the brawned Antaeus of men's rights.
No, Hampden! they have half-way conquered Fate
Who go half-way to meet her,-as will I.
Freedom hath yet a work for me to do;
So speaks that inward voice which never yet
Spake falsely, when it urged the spirit on
To noble deeds for country and mankind.
And, for success, I ask no more than this,-
To bear unflinching witness to the truth.
All true, whole men succeed; for what is worth
Success's name, unless it be the thought,
The inward surety, to have carried out
A noble purpose to a noble end,
Although it be the gallows or the block?
'T is only Falsehood that doth ever need
These outward shows of gain to bolster her.
Be it we prove the weaker with our swords;
Truth only needs to be for once spoke out,
And there's such music in her, such strange rhythm,
As make men's memories her joyous slaves,

Is not born with him; there is always work,
And tools to work withal, for those who will;
And blessed are the horny hands of toil!
The busy world shoves angrily aside
The man who stands with arms akimbo set,
Until occasion tells him what to do;
And he who waits to have his task marked out
Shall die and leave his errand unfulfilled.
Our time is one that calls for earnest deeds:
Reason and Government, like two broad seas,
Yearn for each other with outstretched arms
Across this narrow isthmus of the throne,
And roll their white surf higher every day.
One age moves onward, and the next builds up
Cities and gorgeous palaces, where stood
The rude log huts of those who tamed the wild,
Rearing from out the forests they had felled
The goodly framework of a fairer state;
The builder's trowel and the settler's axe
Are seldom wielded by the selfsame hand;
Ours is the harder task, yet not the less
Shall we receive the blessing for our toil
From the choice spirits of the aftertime.
The field lies wide before us, where to reap

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