GLASS antique, 'twixt thee and Nell
Draw we here a parallel.

She, like thee, was forced to bear
All reflections, foul or fair.

Thou art deep and bright within,
Depths as bright belong'd to Gwynne ;
Thou art very frail as well,
Frail as flesh is, - so was Nell.

Thou, her glass, art silver-lin'd,
She too, had a silver mind:
Thine is fresh till this far day,
Hers till death ne'er wore away:

Thou dost to thy surface win
Wandering glances, so did Gwynne;
Eyes on thee long love to dwell,
So men's eyes would do on Nell.

Life-like forms in thee are sought,
Such the forms the actress wrought;
Truth unfailing rests in you,
Nell, whate'er she was, was true.

Clear as virtue, dull as sin,

Thou art oft, as oft was Gwynne;
Breathe on thee, and drops will swell:
Bright tears dimm'd the eyes of Nell.

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.

Of the world's misnam'd good: mother and child,

Both aged and mateless. These two life sustain'd

By braiding fishing-nets; and so beguil'd Time and their cares, and little e'er complain'd

Of Fate or Providence: resign'd and mild, Whilst day by day, for years, their hourglass rain'd

Its trickling sand, to track the wing of time, They toil'd in peace; and much there was sublime

In their obscure contentment of mankind They little knew, or reck'd; but for their being

They bless'd their Maker, with a simple mind;

And in the constant gaze of his allseeing

Eye, to his poorest creatures never blind, Deeming they dwelt, they bore their sorrows fleeing,

Glad still to live, but not afraid to die, In calm expectance of Eternity.

And since I first did greet those braiders poor,

If ever I'behold fair women's cheeks Sin-pale in stately mansions, where the door

Is shut to all but pride, my cleft heart

seeks

For refuge in my thoughts, which then explore

That pathway lone near which the wild sea breaks,

And to Imagination's humble eyes
That hut, with all its want, is Paradise!

BIRTH AND DEATH

METHINKS the soul within the body held
Is as a little babe within the womb,
Which flutters in its antenatal tomb,
But stirs and heaves the prison where 't is
cell'd,

And struggles in strange darkness, undispell'd

By all its strivings towards the breath and bloom

Of that aurorean being soon to come Strivings of feebleness, by nothing quell'd: And even as birth to the enfranchis'd child,

Which shows to its sweet senses all the vast

Of beauty visible and audible,
Is death unto the spirit undefil'd ;
Setting it free of limit, and the past,
And all that in its prison-house befell.

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!

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.

Now tell the poor young children, O my brothers,

To look up to Him and pray; So the blessed One who blesseth all the others,

Will bless them another day. They answer, "Who is God that He should hear us,

While the rushing of the iron wheels is stirr'd?

When we sob aloud, the human creatures

near us

Pass by, hearing not, or answer not a word.

And we hear not (for the wheels in their resounding)

Strangers speaking at the door : Is it likely God, with angels singing round Him,

Hears our weeping any more?

"Two words, indeed, of praying we remember,

And at midnight's hour of harm,