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Now answers, like a courtly dame,

The reddening surges o'er,
With flying scarf of spangled flame,

The Pharos of the shore.

To-night yon pilot shall not sleep,

Who trims his narrow'd sail;
To-night yon frigate scarce shall keep

Her broad breast to the gale;
And many a foresail, scoop'd and strain'd,

Shall break from yard and stay,
Before this smoky wreath has stain'd

The rising mist of day.

Hark! hark! I hear yon whistling shroud,

I see yon quivering mast;
The black throat of the hunted cloud

Is panting forth the blast!
An hour, and, whirl'd like winnowing chaff,

The giant surge shall fling
His tresses o'er yon pennon staff,

White as the sea-bird's wing!

Yet rest, ye wanderers of the deep;

Nor wind nor wave shall tire
Those fleshless arms, whose pulses leap

With floods of living fire;
Sleep on,—and, when the morning light

Streams o'er the shining bay,
O think of those for whom the night

Shall never wake in day!

THE PEOPLE'S ANTHEM.

A fine composition, written for music by Eeenkzer Elliott, the Corn Law Rhymer.

Whes wilt thou save the people?

Oh, God of Mercy! when r
Not kings and lords, bat nations!

Not thrones and crowns, but men!

Flowers of thy heart, oh, God, are they!
Let them not pass, like weeds, away!
Their heritage a sunless day!

God, save the people!

Shall crime bring crime for ever,

Strength aiding still the strong?
Is it thy will, oh, Father,

That man shall toil for wrong?
"No !" say thy mountains; "No!" thy skies:
"Man's clouded sun shall brightly rise,
And songs be heard instead of sighs."

God, save the people!

When wilt thou save the people?

Oh, God of Mercy! when?
The people, Lord, the people!
Not thrones and crowns, but men!
God! save the people! thine they are,
Thy children, as thy angels fair:
Save them from bondage, and despair!

God, save the people!

WHAT SAY THE CLOUDS?
Bj Barry Cornwall.

What say the clouds on the hill and plain?

"We come, we go." What say the springs of the dreaming brain?

"We shrink, we flow." What say the maids in their changeful hours?

"We laugh, we cry."
What say the budding and fading flowers?
"We live, we die."

And thus all things go ranging,
From riddle to riddle changing,
From day into night, from life into death,
And no one knows why, my song saith.

A fable is good, and a truth is good,

And loss, and gain;
And the ebb and the flood, and the black pine wood,

And the vast bare plain;
To wake and to sleep, and to dream of the deep,

Are good, say I;
And 'tis good to.laugh, and 'tis good to weep;
But who knows why?

Yet thus all things go ranging,

From riddle to riddle changing,

From day into night, from life into death,

And no one knows why, my song saith.

We cumber the earth for a hundred years;

We learn, we teach;
We fight amidst perils, and hopes, and fears,

Fame's rock to reach.
We boast that our fellows are sages wrought

In toil and pain;
Yet the commonest lesson by nature taught,
Doth vex their brain!

Oh, all things here go ranging,

From riddle to riddle changing,

From day into night, from life into death,

And no one knows why, my song saith.

CARILLON.
By Longfellow.

In the ancient town of Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city,
As the evening shades descended,
Low and loud and sweetly blended,
Low at times and loud at times
Changing like a poet's rhymes,
Rang the beautiful wild chimes
From the belfry in the market
Of the ancient town of Bruges.
Then, with deep sonorous clangour
Calmly answering their sweet anger,

When the wrangling bells had ended,
Slowly struck the clock eleven,
And from out the silent heaven,
Silence on the town descended.
Silence, silence everywhere.
On the earth and in the air,
Save that footsteps here and there
Of some burgher, home returning,
By the street lamps faintly burning,
For a moment woke the echoes
Of the ancient town of Bruges.

But amid my broken slumbers
Still I heard those magic numbers,
As they loud proclaimed the flight
And stolen marches of the night;
Till their chimes in sweet collision
Mingled with each wandering vision,
Mingled with the fortune-telling
Gipsy-bands of dreams and fancies,
Which amid the waste expanses
Of the silent land of trances
Have their solitary dwelling.
All. else seem'd asleep in Bruges,
In the quaint old Flemish city.

And I thought how like these chimes
Are the poet's airy rhymes,
All his rhymes and roundelays,
His conceits, and songs, and ditties,
From the belfry of his brain,
Scatter'd downward, though in vain,
On the roofs and stones of cities!
For by night the drowsy ear
Under its curtains cannot hear,
And by day men go their ways,
Hearing the music as they pass,
But deeming it no more, alas!
Than the hollow sound of brass.

Yet perchance a sleepless wight,
Lodging at some humble inn
In the narrow lanes of life,
When the dusk and hush of night

Shut out the incessant din
Of daylight and its toil and strife,
May listen with a calm delight
To the poet's melodies,
Till he hears, or dreams he hears,
Intermingled with the song,
Thoughts that he has cherish'd long;
Hears amid the chime and singing
The bells of his own village ringing,
And wakes and finds his slumberous eyes
Wet with most delicious tears.
Thus dream'd I, as by night I lay-
In Bruges, at the Fleur-de-BU5,
Listening with a wild delight
To the chimes that, through the night,
Rang their changes from the belfry
Of that quaint old Flemish city.

OLD CHRISTMAS.
By Mary Howttt.

Now he who knows old Christmas
He knows a carle of worth;

For he is as good a fellow,
As any upon the earth!

He comes warm cloak'd and coated,
And button'd up to the chin;

And soon as he comes a-nigh the door,
'Twill open and let him in.

We know that he will not fail us,
So we sweep the hearth up clean;

We set him the old arm-chair,
And a cushion whereon to lean.

And with sprigs of holly and ivy
We make the house look gay;

Just out of an old regard to him,—
For it was his ancient way.

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