But in the lips and lofty brows So thought I to myself, and fast But yet when one quick glance was past, So I gave credence, as seem'd meet, For coldest heart that ever beat The imp went dancing down the lane, 'Twas nature's dart, aim'd at the heart, Which had forsworn her gentle sway: It pierced-away the father ran; 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 Until the child for bore. Then up to me-he saw me smile- THE PRESS. EBENEZER ELLIOTT, the Corn Law Rhymer, was a mechanic, a real working man of Sheffield. He very early distinguished himself as a poet, but he had the rare good sense to make the pleasures of literature an amusement and not a calling, so he 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. But 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!” The startled seas, and mountains bold, Hail, holy light! exclaimed The thunderous cloud, that flamed And lo, the rose, in crimson dress'd, And, blushing, murmur'd "Light!" Then was the skylark born; Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon; Lo! heaven's bright bow is glad! And shall the mortal sons of God And darker than the tomb? No, by the mind of man! By God, our Sire! Our souls have holy light within, Shall see and feel its fire. By earth, and hell, and heaven, Is light, and hope, and life, and power; The second Ark we bring: Oh! pallid want; oh! labour stark; 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- Of thee, the kindest, loveliest, best, Afar from thee! The words of praise Afar from thee! the night is come, And my heart's home is love with thee. Bends on us both his watchful eye. Together, in his loved embrace, THE YOUNG BIRD OF PASSAGE. By WILLIAM HOWITT. Oн bird! oh little bird, But them thou knowest not. Here hast thou woke to life; Here only, life hast known; Here 'mid flowers, songs, green grass, 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 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, Oh bird! oh little bird, 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, Vainly would earth detain me, Her spring-tide spell is o'er; |