Or east or west, that England brings not forth?
We may not show the baubles of the east,
Nor yet display the virgin gold of west,

But, let Wisdom hold the scale with even poise,
Reject the chaff, and weigh the sterling corn;
Proclaim around her clear, impartial choice,

And mark where Fame will point her golden horn. Oh Britain! bright garden for useful up-rearing; For staple commodities second to none;

With climate of south and of north midway sharing, In equal proportions, the smiles of the sun.

Embedded beneath thy broad bosom abideth

Rich ores, and which Science upturneth with ease; Whilst Commerce, with wind-like rapidity glideth

O'er iron-ribbed earth and obedient seas.

Thy sons-let them plough, pen or pencil be wielding, Will vie with the best, come they near, or from far, In Science and Art the palm will not be yielding,Will conquer in peace, as they've vanquish'd in war.

Yet husha dirge-like wail, weird in its tone,Like moan of spirits wandering wide and lone, Seeking their lost, as those who seek in vain,— Floats through the isles, a sad yet holy strain. What form is she, who moves with downcast eye, And breast up-heaving with the bursting sigh? Bare are her arms, and her dishevelled hair Floats freely wild upon the wanton air!

Sons press around her 'neath that glittering dome,
Who hither north, south, east, and west have come
To do her homage there!

Yet Art! oh Art! well may'st thou sadly sigh,
And wander on with downcast weeping eye,
For lost! for ever lost, thy gifted son!
And see, where weeping near,

Sad Science with slow step doth move,
With, following in her train,

The genius of domestic love,

Who never shall again,

With kindling eye e'er gaze upon

Our ALBERT gone! for ever gone!

THOMAS VAughan.

The Hillage Blacksmith.

NDER a spreading chestnut tree
The village smithy stands;
The Smith, a mighty man is he,

With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black and long,
His face is like the tan;

His brow is wet with honest sweat,

He earns whate'er he can,

And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,
You can hear his bellows blow;
You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,

Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school

Look in at the

open door ;

They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar ;
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys :

He hears the parson pray and preach,
And hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,

And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice
Singing in Paradise !

He needs must think of her once more,–
How in the grave she lies;

And with his hard round hand he wipes A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling-rejoicing-sorrowing,

Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begun,
Each evening sees its close;
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks! thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught !

Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped,
Each burning deed and thought.

LONGFELLOW.

Hew Story of a Dife.

"The seasons come and go, and find him the same.”
SPRING.

HE hedge is sprouting out again,
TO The thrush resumes his voice,
The rainbow spans the daisied plain,
The hills and woods rojoice:

But on a roadside mound there sits-
Made
up of skin and bones,

And sorely plagued with coughing fits-
A man a-breaking stones.

SUMMER.

The hedge is in its greenest suit,

The thrush sings clearer still

The plain is decked with flowers and fruit,
The sun lights up the hill :-

But there upon the rubble bank,
With short asthmatic groans,

And silvered hair, all long and lank-
That man's a-breaking stones.

AUTUMN.

The hedges gleam with varied leaf,
The thrush darts to and fro,
The plain yields up the golden sheaf,
The hill is all a-glow:

But settled down in granite seat,
With weak and childish moans,
And big, ungainly, outstretched feet,-
That man's a-breaking stones.

WINTER.

Now stark and spare, the hedges stare,
The hungry thrush grows bold;
The plain is bare-all's cheerless there,
The hill is bleak and cold:

But there he sits, as folks pass by

Chatting in cheerful tonesWith purple lip and tearful eyeThat man a-breaking stones.