Thine's a frame to charm the sight,
Fram'd was she to give delight,
Waxen forms here truly show
Charles above and Nell below;

But between them, chin with chin,
Stuart stands as low as Gwynne, -
Paired, yet parted, - meant to tell
Charles was opposite to Nell.

Round the glass wherein her face
Smil'd so oft, her "arms we trace;
Thou, her mirror, hast the pair,
Lion here, and leopard there.

She had part in these, — akin
To the lion-heart was Gwynne;
And the leopard's beauty fell
With its spots to bounding Nell.

Oft inspected, ne'er seen through,
Thou art firm, if brittle too ;
So her will, on good intent,
Might be broken, never bent.

What the glass was, when therein
Beam'd the face of glad Nell Gwynne,
Was that face by beauty's spell
To the honest soul of Nell.

CHARTIST SONG

THE time shall come when wrong shall end, When peasant to peer no more shall bend; When the lordly Few shall lose their sway, And the Many no more their frown obey. Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done,

Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter won!

The time shall come when the artisan
Shall homage no more the titled man ;
When the moiling men who delve the mine
By Mammon's decree no more shall pine.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done,
Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter

won.

The time shall come when the weavers' band

Shall hunger no more in their fatherland; When the factory-child can sleep till day, And smile while it dreams of sport and play.

HYMN

Toil, brothers, toil, till the work is done, Till the struggle is o'er, and the Charter

won.

The time shall come when Man shall hold His brother more dear than sordid gold; When the negro's stain his freeborn mind Shall sever no more from human-kind.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free, Till Justice and Love hold jubilee.

The time shall come when kingly crown And mitre for toys of the past are shown; When the fierce and false alike shall fall, And mercy and truth encircle all.

Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free, Till Mercy and Truth hold jubilee !

The time shall come when earth shall be
A garden of joy, from sea to sea,
When the slaughterous sword is drawn no

more,

And goodness exults from shore to shore. Toil, brothers, toil, till the world is free, Till goodness shall hold high jubilee !

HE sendeth sun, he sendeth shower,
Alike they're needful for the flower:
And joys and tears alike are sent
To give the soul fit nourishment.
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Can loving children e'er reprove

With murmurs whom they trust and love?
Creator! I would ever be

A trusting, loving child to thee:
As comes to me or cloud or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

Oh, ne'er will I at life repine :
Enough that thou hast made it mine.
When falls the shadow cold of death
I yet will sing, with parting breath,
As comes to me or shade or sun,
Father! thy will, not mine, be done!

THE CRY OF THE CHILDREN

Do ye hear the children weeping, O my brothers,

Ere the sorrow comes with years? They are leaning their young heads against their mothers,

And that cannot stop their tears. The young lambs are bleating in the mead

ows,

The young birds are chirping in the nest, The young fawns are playing with the shadows,

The young flowers are blowing toward the west:

But the young, young children, O my brothers,

They are weeping bitterly! They are weeping in the playtime of the others,

In the country of the free.

Do you question the young children in the

sorrow

Why their tears are falling so? The old man may weep for his to-morrow Which is lost in Long Ago;

The old tree is leafless in the forest,
The old year is ending in the frost,
The old wound, if stricken, is the sorest,

The old hope is hardest to be lost : But the young, young children, O my brothers,

Do you ask them why they stand

Weeping sore before the bosoms of their mothers,

In our happy Fatherland?

They look up with their pale and sunken faces,

And their looks are sad to see, For the man's hoary anguish draws and presses

Down the cheeks of infancy; "Your old earth," they say, "is very dreary, Our young feet," they say, 66 are very

weak; Few paces have we taken, yet are weary Our grave-rest is very far to seek : Ask the aged why they weep, and not the children,

For the outside earth is cold, And we young ones stand without, in our bewildering,

And the graves are for the old."

Alas, alas, the children! they are seeking Death in life, as best to have:

They are binding up their hearts away from breaking,

With a cerement from the grave. Go out, children, from the mine and from the city,

Sing out, children, as the little thrushes

do; Pluck your handfuls of the meadow-cowslips pretty,

Laugh aloud, to feel your fingers let them through!

But they answer, "Are your cowslips of the meadows

Like our weeds anear the mine? Leave us quiet in the dark of the coalshadows,

From your pleasures fair and fine!

Turns the sky in the high window blank and reeling,

Turns the long light that drops adown the

wall,

Turn the black flies that crawl along the ceiling,

All are turning, all the day, and we with all.

And all day, the iron wheels are droning, And sometimes we could pray,

"O ye wheels,' (breaking out in a mad moaning)

'Stop! be silent for to-day !""

Ay, be silent! Let them hear each other breathing

For a moment, mouth to mouth! Let them touch each other's hands, in a fresh wreathing

Of their tender human youth! Let them feel that this cold metallic motion Is not all the life God fashions or reveals : Let them prove their living souls against the notion

That they live in you, or under you, O

wheels!

Still, all day, the iron wheels go onward, Grinding life down from its mark; And the children's souls, which God is calling sunward,

Spin on blindly in the dark.