Wherewith perchance to make a pleasant rhyme, One which may profit in the aftertime.

Thus, though abroad perchance I might appear
Harsh and austere,

To those who on my leisure would intrude
Reserved and rude,

Gentle at home amid my friends I'd be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And should my youth, as youth is apt I know,
Some harshness show,

All vain asperities I day by day
Would wear away,

Till the smooth temper of my age should be
Like the high leaves upon the holly tree.

And as when all the summer trees are seen
So bright and green,

The holly leaves their fadeless hues display
Less bright than they;

But when the bare and wintry woods we see,
What then so cheerful as the holly tree:

So serious should my youth appear among
The thoughtless throng,

So would I seem among

the young and

More grave than they,
That in my age as cheerful I might be
As the green winter of the holly tree.

gay

SOUTHEY

THE WEAVER'S SONG.

Weave, brothers, weave! Swiftly throw
The shuttle athwart the loom,

And show us how brightly your flowers grow,
That have beauty but no perfume!

Come show us the rose with a hundred dyes,
The lily that hath no spot;

The violet deep as your true love's eyes,
And the little forget-me-not!

Sing-sing, brothers, weave and sing!
'Tis good both to sing and to weave;
'Tis better to work than to live idle:
"Tis better to sing than to grieve.

Weave, brothers, weave! Weave and bid
The colours of sunset glow!

Let grace in each gliding thread be hid!
Let beauty about you blow!

Let your skein be long, and your silk be fine,
And your hands both fine and sure;

And time nor chance shall your work untwine,
But all-like a truth-endure!

Sing-sing, brothers, &c. &c.

Weave, brothers, weave!―toil is ours;
But toil is the lot of men :

One gathers the fruit, one gathers the flowers,
One soweth the seed again!

There is not a creature, from England's king,
To the peasant that delves the soil,

That knows half the pleasure the seasons
If he have not his share of toil!

bring,

So sing brothers, &c.

BARRY CORNWALL.

THE IRON-FOUNDERS.

'Tis a fearful sight, on a winter's night,
When the wind on the moors is high,
And here and there the furnace-glare
Is ruddy across the sky:

And horribly bright from its funnel's height
A sheet of flame is cast;
And far below is the livid glow
Of the iron melting fast.

A weary watch, while others sleep,
A weary watch have we;

When the frost is sharp, and the night is deep,
And as lone as lone can be:

And the blast, that nothing can weary, roars, To the wind that roars again;

You might keep alive, with the air it pours,
Two hundred thousand men!

And hour by hour, as the distant stroke
Of the old church-clock we hear,
We feed the furnace with lime and coke,
Whereon he makes good cheer:
And hour by hour, in his red, red sides,
He melts the ore away;

And the liquid stream of metal glides
From the hearth to its bed of clay.

And this is the way that our hours decay,
And these are the toils that wear;
For our children's sake our rest we break
From youth to the hoary hair:

The very iron we fashion out,

Of turmoil tells its tale;

The cannon that roars in the battle-shout,
The anchor and the rail.

We murmur not that the words were said

To all of mortal frame,

In the sweat of our brow we must needs eat bread,
Till we turn from whence we came:

But when clouds fly off, and tempests cease,
And skies are calm and clear,

We cannot but long for the Land of Peace,
And the quiet we know not here!

THE MINERS.

A hundred fathoms, one and all, below the earth we dwell,

We never know the daylight's glow, that others love so well:

The ploughman sees the hills and trees, that we can never view;

The very sun that shines on him, on the Queen is shining too.

By hard attacks, by flame and axe, we blast and hew

our way;

In darkness dim, through caverns grim, we toil from day to day:

The engine roars, the water pours, the pinions creak

and strain;

The buckets rise with fresh supplies, and still we work the vein.

The toil we share, the very air whereof we take our

breath,

The rocks we hew, the things we view,

full of death;

And still we say, as day by

damp,

day we pass

the fiery

SAFETY LAMP.

made the

His name be blest, and light his rest, that

A man thinks light of wrong or right, that never sees

the sun;

And in the place where darkness dwells, are deeds of
darkness done;

The evil jest, the hardened breast,
both, and worse,

we know them

The heart that cares for nothing, and the blasphemy

and curse.

Aye! time seems long in passing!

pass away;

Each thing we thought, each deed we wrought, will have its reckoning-day:

The deeds we did in secret shall be shown in all men's sight,

The words we spoke in darkness shall be published in the light!

For He, who bade the husbandman to plough and

sow and reap,

Hath his eyes upon the miner in the lode so dark

and deep:

Let us trust in Him at all times,—let us only do his

will,

And He, who heard our cry of late, can guide and

guard us still.

God bless the man to whom we owe the thanks of all For saving from their bondage our children and our

our lives;

wives:

God bless the man

to plead;

That bravely came

our need!

that dared alone the miners' cause

to end our shame, and help us in

NEALE.