"Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a

vain thing?"

Not unpleasing always, mostly 'tis feeble, yet stilted, Wanting, in wanting ease, the might which is mightiest, beauty.

Yet can it finely paint the beauty of form and of

colour;

Skies, and the sea; or mountains cloud-like in distance, and stealing

Azure from heav'n; or the daisy fresh in the dewgleam of dawn; or

Young June's blush-tinted hawthorn, that scatters the now of its dropp'd flowers

Over the faded cowslip, and roses embraced by the woodbine,

Under the mute, or songful, or thunder-whispering

forest;

But from man's heart seldom it brings the tear, which the angels,

Knowing not sorrow, might almost in their blessed

ness envy.

Slow or rapid, sweet or solemn, in Greek and in Latin, It is in English undignified, loose, and worse than the worst prose.

One advantage it has-it must be utter'd as prose is; And as it may be wanted, if only as changes are

wanted,

I subjoin the rule for its fitting or modern construction:

Every line must consist of six feet, dactyls and spon

dees,

Dactyls and trochees, or dactyls and both: A dactyl the fifth foot

Must be; a spondee or trochee the sixth: Each line must contain not

More than sixteen syllables, and not fewer than thir

teen.

BULLY IDLE'S PRAYER.

LORD, send us weeks of Sundays,
A saint's day every day,
Shirts gratis, ditto breeches,

No work, and double pay!

Tell Short and Long they're both short now;
To Slow and Fast one meed allow;

Let Louis Blanc take Ashley's cow,

And Richmond give him hay !*

* Twenty-four years ago our Protectionists had notice given them, by me, that they would have imitators; and they must not be allowed to forget, that out of their cornlaws sprung the Trade's Union which is now (March 1848) the French government!

HYMN.

STILL for rest on Sabbath day,
Air and light on "Labour's day,"
Let us toil-if toil we may ;
Toil till death, if toil we may,

Toil till death for pauper's pay,
And our blessed Sabbath day.

WILL IT RAIN?

"BREAD!" the starver faintly sigheth;
"I have none!" the robb'd replieth;
Doall loseth, Starveall winneth;
Cheatall laugheth, while he sinneth ;
Work grim-gaspeth o'er spare diet;
And the Million-Tongued is quiet.

When the forest breatheth deeply,
Darkèd sun down shining steeply;
When the noon-night scarcely shifteth;
And the windy cloud uplifteth

Not a leaf the mute heav'ns under;
Then, the thoughtful look for thunder!

VOL. II.

P

GOOD MEN'S GRAVES.

LONE, they rest.

Nor Snap, nor Snivel,

Robs, or pities virtue's dust!

Marble insults, Cant and Drivel

Build not o'er the just.

Them, in thought, the honest only
Visit, while they toil as slaves:
Oh, 'Tis true! the stars shine lonely
Over good men's graves.
All in silence, not in sorrow,

Read they on the wordless sod, "These men's deeds will speak, to-morrow;

They are words of God;

Heard in heav'n, with tears of gladness;

Mute on earth! yet working there;

Bringing chains for rapine's madness,
Wings for chain'd despair."

YOUNG POET'S PLAINT.

GOD, release our dying sister!

Beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her:
Whiter than the wild, white roses,

Famine in her face discloses

Mute submission, patience holy,

Passing fair! but passing slowly.

Though she said, "You know I'm dying," In her heart green trees are sighing;

Not of them hath pain bereft her,

In the city, where we left her:

"Bring," she said, "a hedgeside blossom!"

Love shall lay it on her bosom.

ARTISAN'S OUTDOOR HYMN.

AGAIN, oh, Lord, we humbly pray
That Thou wilt guide our steps aright:
Bless here, this day, tired Labour's day!
Oh, fill our souls with love and light!