Shall miss thy whims of frolic wit,
That in the summer wild-wood,
Or by the Christmas hearth, were hail'd,
And hoarded as a treasure
Of undecaying merriment

And ever-changing pleasure.
Things from thy lavish humor flung
Profuse as scents, are flying

This kindling morn, when blooms are born
As fast as blooms are dying.

Sublimer art owned thy control :
The minstrel's mightiest magic,
With sadness to subdue the soul,
Or thrill it with the tragic.
Now listening Aram's fearful dream,
We see beneath the willow
That dreadful thing, or watch him steal,
Guilt-lighted, to his pillow.

Now with thee roaming ancient groves,
We watch the woodman felling
The funeral elm, while through its boughs
The ghostly wind comes knelling.

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!