EXTRACT FROM A PREFACE TO A FORMER EDITION.

I THANK the readers of my two first volumes. They are, I believe, mostly poor people, who would have bought more of my books, if they had not wanted bread; and the sale, I have no doubt, will keep pace exactly with their progress in knowledge, virtue, and freedom. I know not whether my publisher is satisfied--I trust he is; but for myself, I am sufficiently rewarded, if my poetry has led one poor despairing victim of misrule from the ale-house to the fields; if I have been chosen of God to show his desolated heart, that, though his wrongs have been heavy and his fall deep, and though the spoiler is yet abroad, still in the green lanes of England the primrose is blowing, and on the mountain top the lonely fir pointing with her many fingers to our Father in heaven-to Him, whose wisdom is at once inscrutable and indubitable, and to whom ages are as a moment to Him who has created another and a better world for all who act nobly or suffer unjustly here; a world of river-feeding mountains, to which the oak will come in his strength, and the ash in her beauty of chiming streams, and elmy vales, where the wild flowers of our country, and, among them, the little daisy, will not refuse to bloom.

HYMN

WRITTEN FOR THE PRINTERS OF SHEFFIELD.

LORD! taught by Thee, when Caxton bade
His silent words for ever speak;

A grave for tyrants then was made,

Then crack'd the chain which yet shall break.

For bread, for bread, the all-scorn'd man,
With study worn, his press prepared ;
And knew not, Lord, thy wondrous plan,
Nor what he did, nor what he dared.

When first the might of deathless thought
Impress'd his all-instructing page,
Unconscious giant! how he smote

The fraud and force of many an age!

Pale wax'd the harlot, fear'd of thrones,
And they who bought her harlotry:
He shook the throned on dead men's bones,
He shakes-all evil yet to be!

The pow'r He grasp'd let none disdain ;

It conquer'd once, and conquers still ;

By fraud and force assail'd in vain,

It conquer'd erst, and ever will.

It conquers here! the fight is won!

We thank thee, Lord, with many a tear ! For many a not unworthy son

Of Caxton does thy bidding here.

We help ourselves, thy cause we aid ;
We build for Heav'n, beneath the skies :
And bless Thee, Lord, that Thou hast made
Our daily bread of tyrants' sighs.

THE PRIMROSE.

SURELY that man is pure in thought and deed,
Whom spirits teach in breeze-borne melodies;
For he finds tongue in every flower and weed,
And admonition in mute harmonies;

Erect he moves, by truth and beauty led,

And climbs his throne, for such a monarch meet, To gaze on valleys, that, around him spread, Carpet the hall of heav'n beneath his feet.

How like a trumpet, under all the skies

Blown, to convene all forms that love his beams,
Light speaks in splendour to the poet's eyes,

O'er dizzy rocks and woods, and headlong streams!
How like the voice of woman, when she sings

To her beloved, of love and constancy,
The vernal odours, o'er the murmurings
Of distant waters, pour their melody

Into his soul, mix'd with the throstle's song
And the wren's twitter? Welcome then, again,
Love-listening primrose; though not parted long,
We meet, like lovers, after years of pain.

Oh, thou bring'st blissful childhood back to me !
Thou still art loveliest in the lonest place;
Still, as of old, day glows with love for thee,
And reads our heav'nly Father in thy face.
Surely thy thoughts are humble and devout,
Flower of the pensive gold! for why should heav'n
Deny to thee his noblest boon of thought,

If to earth's demigods 'tis vainly given?

Answer me, sinless sister! Thou hast speech Though silent. Fragrance is thy eloquence, Beauty thy language; and thy smile might teach Ungrateful man to pardon Providence.

SPENSERIAN.

SUN of Destruction; ne'er again arise
The flamy gloom of flaming temples o'er,
To shout thy words of fire beneath red skies,
Athwart fire-gleaming sea, and burning shore-
"Burn, burn, till all is burnèd!" Never more
Let men say, "Light destroys." No, rather crown
The Good dethroned with beams that shone of yore;
As when a bard, of yet unborn renown,

Casts o'er his deathless page the light of suns gone down.

SPRING.

AGAIN the violet of our early days

Drinks beauteous azure from the golden sun,
And kindless into fragrance at his blaze;
The streams, rejoiced that winter's work is done,
Talk of to-morrow's cowslips, as they run.

Wild apple, thou art blushing into bloom!