VI.

But different, far, the little maid,
That dwells unnoticed in the shade
Of Lady Mary's pomp and power;
A Mary, too, a simple flower,

With face all health, with cheeks all smile,

Undarken'd by one cloud of guile ;` And ruddy lips that seem to say, 'Come, kiss me, children, while ye may.’

VII.

A cordial hand, a chubby arm,
And hazel eyes, large, soft, and warm;
Dark hair in curls, a snow-like bust,
A look all innocence and trust,
Lit up at times by sunny mirth,
Like summer smiling on the earth;
A ringing laugh, whose every note
Bursts in clear music from her throat.
VIII.

A poet's daughter-poor, perchance,
But rich in native elegance;

God bless the maid-she may not be
Without some touch of vanity.

She twines red rosebuds in her hair, And smiles to know herself so fair; And quite believes, like other belles, The pleasant tale her mirror tells.

Her lands o'er half a county spread-
And wither in her loveless bed;
But give me Mary, frank and free,
Her beauty, grace, and modesty:
I pass My Lady in the mart-

I take the Woman with the heart.

ABOVE AND BELOW.

I.

MIGHTY river, oh, mighty river,
Rolling in ebb and flow for ever,
Through the city so vast and old;
Through massive bridges-by domes
and spires,

Crown'd with the smoke of a myriad

fires;

City of majesty, power, and gold ;-
Thou lovest to float on thy waters dull
The white-wing'd fleets so beautiful,
And the lordly steamers speeding along,
Wind defying, and swift and strong;
Thou bearest them all on thy motherly
breast,

Laden with riches, at Trade's behest-
Bounteous Trade, whose wine and corn
Stock the garner and fill the horn;
Who gives us Luxury, Joy, and Pleasure,
Stintless, sumless, out of measure-
Thou art a rich and a mighty river,
Rolling in ebb and flow for ever.

II.

Doleful river, oh, doleful river,
Pale on thy breast the moonbeams
quiver,

Through the city so drear and cold-
City of sorrows hard to bear,

guilt, injustice, and despairCity of miseries untold;-

Thou hidest below, in thy treacherous waters,

The death-cold forms of Beauty's daughters;

The corses pale of the young and sadOf the old whom sorrow has goaded mad

Mothers of babes that cannot know
The sires that left them to their woe-
Women forlorn, and men that run
The race of passion, and die undone;

In ebb and flow for ever and ever-
So rolls the world, thou murky river!
So rolls the tide, above and below:
Above, the rower impels his boat;
Below, with the current the dead men
float!-

The waves may smile in the sunny glow, While above, in the glitter, and pomp, and glare,

The flags of the vessels flap the air; . The waters vomit the wretch that died. But below, in the silent under-tide, Above, the sound of the music swells, From the passing ship, from the city

bells;

From below there cometh a gurgling breath,

As the desperate diver yields to death :
Above and below the waters go,
Bearing their burden of Joy or Woe;
Rolling along, thou mighty river,
In ebb and flow for ever and ever!

JOHN LITTLEJOHN.

JOHN LITTLEJOHN was stanch and strong,

Upright and downright, scorning wrong;
He gave good weight, and paid his way,
He thought for himself, and he said his
say.

Whenever a rascal strove to pass,
Instead of silver, money of brass,
He took his hammer, and said, with a
frown,

'The coin's a bad one, nail it down!'

John Littlejohn was firm and true, You could not cheat him in 'two and two;'

When foolish arguers, might and main, Darken'd and twisted the clear and plain, He saw through the mazes of their speech

The simple truth beyond their reach

frown,

'Your coin's a bad one, nail it down.'

John Littlejohn maintain'd the Right, Through storm and shine, in the world's despite ;

When fools or quacks desired his vote, Dosed him with arguments, learn'd by rote,

Or by coaxing, threats, or promise, tried To gain his support to the wrongful side, Nay, nay,' said John, with an angry frown,

Your coin's a bad one, nail it down.'

When told that kings had a right divine, And that the people were herds of swine, That the rich alone were fit to rule, That the poor were unimproved by school,

That ceaseless toil was the proper fate Of all but the wealthy and the great, John shook his head, and swore, with a frown,

'The coin's a bad one, nail it down.'

When told that events might justify
A false and crooked policy,
That a decent hope of future good
Might excuse departure from rectitude,
That a lie, if white, was a small offence,
To be forgiven by men of sense,
'Nay, nay,' said John, with a sigh and
frown,

'The coin's a bad one, nail it down.'

When told from the pulpit or the press That Heaven was a place of exclusive

ness,

That none but those could enter there Who knelt with the 'orthodox'

prayer,

at

And held all virtues out of their pale
As idle works of no avail,
John's face grew dark, as he swore, with
a frown,

'The coin's a bad one, nail it down?'

Whenever the world our eyes would blind

With false pretences of such a kind,
With humbug, cant, and bigotry,
Or a specious, sham philosophy,

right,

And darkness passing itself for light, Let us imitate John, and exclaim, with a frown,

The coins are spurious, nail them down!'

THE POOR MAN'S BIRD.

I.

A little daughter fair and mild;
A YEAR ago I had a child,
She sleeps beneath the churchyard tree.
More precious than my life to me,
Oh! she was good as she was fair,
She was a radiance in my room,
Her presence was like balmy air;'
She was sunlight in my gloom.

II.

She loved thee well, thou little bird,
Her voice and thine were ever heard;
They roused me when the morning
shone,

But now I hear thy voice alone.
She call'd me gently to her side,
Gave me her bird, and, smiling, died.
Thou wert her last bequest to me;
I loved her fondly-I love thee.

III.

IV.