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have possessed the peculiar features of the age in which they flourished. Without reward (that reward which the generous hearts of the people know only how to give,) the pen was seldom plied or the leading staff upreared.

It is the nature and characteristic of mankind in common with the inferior genera of creation, to revere the higher instinct or the master-mind of their species. Every covey of birds has its leader meach tribe its chief. But seldom has it been found that the members of one speeies evince towards the great of another, either sympathy or affection; too frequently also do the inhabitants of one locality despise and contemn the genius of their neighbours, their discernment being blinded by a clinging prejudice to their fatherland. As an exception, however, a kingdom can be found that estimates ability (to whatever goal it tend) at its full price, even should it originate on an alien strand. The welcome which has been given to one, a foreigner and an Outlaw, could never have been excelled, had it sprung from the lips of his emancipated brethren. The name of Kossuth moved as with one accord the mighty pulse of the English nation, even before the tidings of his advent had reached its shores. It had been reported that a brave man would come-a man who had endured in his feeble body troubles of a gigantic nature, and obtained repeated conquests in the very teeth of innumerable hosts—enduring famine and cold-anguish, bodily and mental,—and for what? For the golden substance of that simple word “Freedom.” This tale had reverberated from the ears of the English people to their hearts, having descended in a burning stream to their core, from thence it leapt in most “large utterance, calling upon their rulers to lash the hounds of Austria and Russia from their bleeding prey. Saxon in spirit as English people are, and as such averse to popular demonstrations, and not easily led away by the impulse of the moment, still on this occasion has a power of sympathy roused them to an enthusiasm quite alien to their nature; but, it were strange indeed if so generous a feeling had run through the whole range of society unchecked--an exception offers itself to this rule. The policy-clad ministers, the hangers on the frivolity of the court, the withered and emaciated descendants of the strong-handed Norman—the purse-proud stockbroker, the “Times,” the manufacturer of the provincial town, and the paid critic of the daily papers, these men have not extended the palm of friendship towards him. It seems the glitter of Austrian gold has dazzled their weak vision, which having been placed in the balance alas! has outweighed the struggling spark

of Brotherood from out their breasts. Can it be that they have forgotten the circumstances of their English birth and English education? Can the accents in which their fathers imparted to them the great lesson of Freedom, have entirely departed? Can the echo of the blows which were stricken by them in the cause, have totally died away? We know not! But still there is one thread of light in this tissue of gloom, side by side with Kossuth, hand in hand with him, upon the platform, and amid the crowded thoroughfare, throwing away the onerous cloak of “caste," there has stood a young patrician, whose name shall hereafter, conjointly be written high in every future state of Europe, to which the spirit of Freedom shall not be more unknown than the name. Above the common mass of the people, he has yet joined heart to heart with them. Truly, in the burning thanks of that people, he has his reward, and as the representative of the English nation, he may add—

“We yield to none in earnest love

Of Freedom's cause sublime.” And his whole proceeding may

Show the world who doubts the fact,

That of Freedom is not born,
Rabble passion-frenzied act,

Utter recklessness and scorn;
If so once they need not be;
Wisdom dwells with Liberty."

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To return one injury for another is to revenge like man ; whereas to revenge like God is to love our enemies. It is a great happiness not to be able to hurt one's neighbour, nor to have the power and parts to do mischief. The ingenuity of (what we call) men of the world, consists in knowing how to injure others, and revenge ourselves when injured. Whereas, on the contrary, not to return evil for evil is the true honour and vital principle of the gospel. —Leon.

The Factory Girl's Vearning.

Out of the factory window,

Out of the death dusty place,
Stretcheth a skeleton figure,

Stretcheth a girl's weary face;
Over the clustering roof-stacks,

Piercing the brick-forest maze,
Into the hearty green country,

Darteth a work-clouded gaze.
Far from the din of the hammers,

Far from the hot air behind,
Far, where the glad trees are swaying,

Batheth the work-clotted mind.
There, on the light-flashing brooklet,

Children are guiding the boat;
There, in the shade of the willows,

Schoolmates are watching the float;
There, in the path o'er the meadows,

Strong hands are clasped in fair,
Brown cheeks are pressed to soft ones,-

Would that the gazer were there!
There, in the freshly cut hay stalks,

Mowers are resting their steel ;
Forth come the wives and the maidens,

Bearing the love-seasoned meal.

Gazing lean't still the work-weary,

Till she half seeméd away
With the young lovers in loving;

With the young children in play,
With the glad band of the rustics,

Sharing the rude country food;
Out of the stout russet bottles,

Out of the platters of wood.
Nay! she e'en envied the buried,

In the piled heaps that she saw;
Soft were their rich loamy pillows,

Hard was her pillow of straw.

Black as the plume of a hero,

Smoke from the factory leapt,
Met the fresh gust from the meadows,

Round the tall chimneys it crept;
Till the green landscape was hidden,

Like a fair face with a mask ;
From her bright dreams woke the worker;
Sighing, she turned to her task!

J. J. B.

A Dirge. Tread the ground tenderly!

Breathless, beware! Hark the bell dolefully

Sounds through the air ! The spirit is far away,

Angels among ! Singing some holy lay,

Midst the glad throng. Toll the bell mournfully!

Toll sad and slow! In the grave carefully,

Down let him go.
Pure is his spot of rest,

Pure was his soul,
With sorrow and grief opprest;

Heavily toll!
No hatchment of worldly show,

Hang o'er his tomb;
Scatter no treasure low,-

Prey for the gloom !
Let lovers a requiem,

Tenderly sing!
Let them that weep for him,

Violets bring!
Plant cypress and yew tree,

And flowrets around;
Let myrtle and willow be

Placed in the ground !
For pure is his spot of rest;

Pure was his soul,
With sorrow and grief opprest,

Heavily toll!

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YE KNYGHT OF YE EMERALDE PLUME, WHO HADE

BEENE TO YE WARS AND RETURNYING HOME, HEREYN IS DESCRYBED ALL THAT BEFELLE HYM.

A Medyaballe Laye, SUITEDDE TO YE EXYSTINGE STATE OF SOCYETIE AS TOUCHYNGE

MORTMAYNE.

I.
Ve flykeringe flame from ye beacon's heyght, .
Gleemede arounde a ruddie glare;
Lyke a henn o'er her broode, our grandame nyght
Hade covered creatyon faire;
One merrilie sange as St. Peter's clange,
Rydinge aneathe ye gloome,
“What care I a strawe for ye Church or ye lawe,
While I'm Kunghte af te Emeralde Plame."

11.
“Ye Vespere bell bathe longe been swunge,
In the tower neath which I were wedd;
And ye mydnight mass bathe longe been sunge
For ye sowles of ye ransomed dead.
Now bye Peter and Paul, or I'll swear bye 'em all,
By chalyce, tyara, and loome,
I care not a whirle but my corpus wants purle :"
Qunthe ge Knyghte of yr Emeralde Plame.

III.
“Ye abbotte lookes meeke, but ye abbotte lookes sleeke,
Sure penitance don't make hym fatte;
And Christendom's woes are bedeckynge hys nose,
But I'll search to ye bottome of that;
For I care not for thee or for purgatorie,
I care not for devilles or gloome,
But I'll searche for youre purle, you canonizede Churle,
While I'm Knyghte of ye Emeralde Plume.

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Downe ye corridore wyde, I will trudge by your syde,
Yet Ghoste of my fore-fathers staye;-
What meanes all ye rowe, arisynge belowe,
The demones I'spose—is it they?
You saye not a worde, you whitewashede birde,
So leade me adowne to ye roume,
For I'll finde out ye cause of this saynted applause,

While I’m Kugghte of qe Emeralde Plume.

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