And they sang-" Hurra for Tubal Cain, III. But a sudden change came o'er his heart And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain For the evil he had done; He saw that men, with rage and hate, Made war upon their kind, That the land was red with the blood they shed In their lust for carnage blind. And he said "Alas! that ever I made, Or that skill of mine should plan, The spear and the sword for men whose joy Is to slay their fellow man." IV. And for many a day old Tubal Cain Sat brooding o'er his woe; And his hand forebore to smite the ore, But he rose at last with a cheerful face, And bared his strong right arm for work, While the quick flames mounted high. And he sang “ Hurra for my handiwork!" And the red sparks lit the air; "Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;" And he fashion'd the first ploughshare. V. And men, taught wisdom from the past, In friendship join'd their hands, Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall, And plough'd the willing lands; And sang " Hurra for Tubal Cain ! Our staunch good friend is he; And for the ploughshare and the plough To him our praise shall be. But while oppression lifts its head, Or a tyrant would be lord, Though we may thank him for the plough, We'll not forget the sword!" PROCRASTINATIONS. 529 PROCRASTINATIONS. If Fortune with a smiling face When shall we stoop to pick them up? But should she frown with face of care, When shall we grieve-if grieve we must? II. If those who've wrong'd us own their faults, When shall we listen and forgive? To-day, my love, to-day. But, if stern Justice urge rebuke, And warmth from Memory borrow, When shall we chide-if chide we dare? III. If those to whom we owe a debt Are harmed unless we pay, When shall we struggle to be just? To-day, my love, to-day. But if our debtor fail our hope And plead his ruin thorough, When shall we weigh his breach of faith? IV. If Love, estranged, should once again When shall we kiss her proffered lips? But, if she would indulge regret, When shall we weep-if weep we must? V. For virtuous acts and harmless joys We've always time to welcome them, THE daughter of Thomas Sheridan, and granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, this lady bore a name that was a passport to public favour. She has well supported the honours of her family. CarolineElisabeth-Sarah was one of three daughters, remarkable for talents and beauty, born to Thomas Sheridan and his wife, a daughter of Colonel and Lady Elisabeth Callander of Craigforth. She early gave indications of a love for literature, and in her seventeenth year wrote "The Sorrows of Rosalie," a poetical story of village life. In her nineteenth year she was married to the Hon. G. C. Norton, son of the first Lord Grantley; but this union proved peculiarly unhappy, and was dissolved in 1840. In 1831 Mrs. Norton published "The Undying One," a poem founded on the old legend of the Wandering Jew; and she has since written "The Wife," a novel, 1835; "The Dream and other Poems," 1840; "The Child of the Islands," 1845; "Tales and Sketches, in Prose and Verse;" "Stuart of Dunleath," a novel, etc., etc. On many questions of social interest and importance, Mrs. Norton has been an anxious and useful labourer. Her poetry is earnest and passionate-strong though alternating with feminine tenderness and beauty of expression. THE MOTHER'S HEART. WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond, Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years, And meekly cheerful—such wert thou, my child. Not willing to be left: still by my side Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying; Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide Through the dark room, where I was sadly lying; Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek, Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek. THE MOTHER'S HEART. O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower, Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee Didst come as restless as a bird's wing glancing, Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth! Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy! And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ; And thine was many an art to win and bless, The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile the frequent soft caress The earnest, tearful prayer, all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found, But thought that love with thee had reached its bound. At length thou camest-thou, the last and least, Nicknamed 'the emperor' by thy laughing brothers, Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast, And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile A mimic majesty that made us smile. And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou! An eye of resolute and successful scheming— Different from both! yet each succeeding claim, Nor injured either by this love's comparing, 531 PROFESSOR AYTOUN. (1813-1865). WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE ATYOUN, a native of Edinburgh, while a student in the University there, in 1831, wrote a prize poem, "Judith," and shortly afterwards "Poland and other Poems." He studied for the Scottish bar, but abandoned it for literature. In 1839 he commenced a connection with Blackwood's Magazine, which existed till his death, and during which he contributed above one hundred and twenty pieces in prose and verse-ballads, tales, political essays, and criticism. His most popular work is "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," a series of ballads on interesting portions of Scottish history, which have gone through many editions. He is author also of a narrative poem, in the same style, "Bothwell;" of a clever satirical poem, "Firmilian;" of the "BonGaultier Ballads," written in conjunction with Mr. Theodore Martin; and of a translation of the "Poems of Goethe," in which also Mr. Martin was joint-labourer. In 1845 Mr. Aytoun was appointed to the chair of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of Edinburgh, in which he was highly popular; and in 1852 he was made Sheriff of Orkney. His sudden death, which took place at Blackhills, near Elgin, just after he had completed his 52d year, was deeply regretted. Mr. Aytoun's fame may be said to rest on his Cavalier Lays, which are picturesque and animated; but his humorous pieces, both in prose and verse, evince more real talent and originality. THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE. Lo! we bring with us the hero- Fresh and bleeding from the battle Is there any here will venture |