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But in the lips and lofty brows

'Twas evident that they were one, And in the eye, it3 sudden close And quick expansion: now who knows But they are sire and son?

So thought I to myself, and fast

My charity was running down; But yet when one quick glance was past, No look upon the child he cast,

No smile, nor yet a frown.

So I gave credence, as seem'd meet,

To that sad tale of loveless woe; For coldest heart that ever beat Was never school'd to such deceit

As this, said I, I know.

The imp went dancing down the lane,

And never saw us standing there,
When suddenly he fell; amain
A horrid cry—a cry of pain,

Rang shrilly on the air!

'Twas nature's dart, aim'd at the heart, Which had forsworn her gentle sway:

It pierced—away the father ran;

Three leaps had borne the hasty man
To where the urchin lay.

He took him up, he laid his cheek

To his; the lovely boy's was pale: He kissed him as a mother meek Kisses her child, but doth not speak

For fear his slumbers fail.

Moist dew was in his viperous eyes

That were so horny bright before: To soothe the boy with play he tries; He mimics playfully his cries,

Until the child forbore.

Then up to me—he saw me smile—

He led the child so fair and young:
"Five more I have, Sir:" I, meanwhile,
For the heart's faith forgave the guile
That was but of the tongue.

THE PRESS.

Enenezer Elliott, the Corn Law Rhymer, was a mechanic, a real working man of Sheffield. He very early distinguished himself as a poet, hat he had the rare good sense to make the pleasures of literature an amusement and not a calling, so be worked at his trade all day and devoted his evenings to the indulgence of his intellectual tastes. His compositions are remarkable for their vigorous freshness. He is a perfect master of language, and his thoughts flow in a train very different from anything which has characterized any other poet. He is emphatically the Bard of the Poor; he describes the feelings, wants, impressions and aspirations of his own class, and hence his works will always be read with interest as pictures of the present mental condition of the most numerous section of the community. Bnt they are also admirable from their intrinsic merits, for they contain poetry of a very high order. We now present a poem which was written for the printers in the procession that celebrated the passing of the Reform Act.

God said " Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might
And fled away.
The startled seas, and mountains bold,
Shone forth all bright in blue and gold,

And cried, "'Tis day, 'tis day!"

Hail, holy light! exclaimed
The thunderous cloud, that flamed
O'er daisies white;
And lo, the rose, in crimson dress'd,
Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast,

And, blushing, murmur'd " Light!"

Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;
Then streams of praise
Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And when night came the pallid moon

Pour'd forth her pensive lays.

Lo! Leaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo! trees and flowers all clad
In glory, bloom!
And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod,

And darker than the tomb?

No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our Sire!
Our souls have holy light within,
And every form of grief and sin

Shall see and feel its fire.

By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven;
Mind, mind-alone
Is light, and hope, and life, and power;
Earth's deepest night, from this bless'd hour,
The nigKt of minds is gone!

The second Ark we bring:

The Press all nations sing;

What can they less?

Oh! pallid want; oh! labour stark;

Behold we bring the second Ark—

The Press! the Press! the Press!

TO MY WIFE.

From an American periodical we select the following feeling and tasteful little lyric, there published anonymously.

Afar from thee! 'Tis solitude,

Though smiling crowds around me be,
The kind, the beautiful, the good—

For I can only think of thee;
Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best,

My earliest and my only one;
Without thee, I am all unblest,

And wholly blest with thee alone.

Afar from thee! The words of praise

My listless ear unheeded greet; What sweetest seem'd in better days,

Without thee seem'd no longer sweet; The dearest joy fame can bestow,

Is in thy moisten'd eye to see, And in thy cheeks' unusual glow,

Thou deem'st me not unworthy thee.

Afar from thee f the night is come,

But slumbers from my pillow flee; I cannot rest so far from home,

And my heart's home is lore with thee. I kneel before the throne of prayer,

And then I know that thou art nigh; For God, who seeth everywhere,

Bends on us both his watchful eye.

Together, in his loved embrace,

No distance can our hearts divide; Forgotten quite the 'mediate space,

I kneel thy kneeling form beside; My tranquil frame then sinks to sleep,

But soars the spirit far and free; O welcome be night's slumbers deep,

For then, dear love! I am with thee.

THE YOUNG BIRD OF PASSAGE.

By William Howitt.

Oh bird! oh little bird,

Blithe in thy native spot!
This summer sky expands
Far, far o'er other lands,

But them thou knowest not.
i

Here hast thou woke to life;

Here only, life hast known;
Here 'mid flowers, songs, green grass,
And streams that glittering pass,

Thy merry hours have flown.

And if to thee be given

The mystery of thought; Here dost thou hope to dwell, With things beloved so well,

That none beside are thought.

But soon! but soon shall dawn

Within thee strange desires, Strange dreams of other skies, Strange far-off melodies,

The sound of Indian choirs.

And thy first loves and joys,

Hush'd spell-bound in thy heart,

From woodland, field, and stream,

Like pleasures of a dream,—
Shall they and thou depart!

Called,—urged, thou know'st not how,

Up, up thy soul shall spring,
Daring the ocean flood,
Daring heaven's solitude,

With inexperienced wing.

Oh bird! oh little bird,

Strange as thy lot may be, Yet, in thy young delight, Yet, in thy coming flight,

Thou art a type of me.

For now, even now I feel,

Here, where my life first shone, Some unseen world's control Strong in my inmost soul,

And bidding me begone.

Voices of power are calling,

Sounds come from other spheres,

Visions float through my breast,

And thoughts that will not rest
But in the unreach'd years.

Vainly would earth detain me,
Her spring-tide spell is o'er;

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