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Unless proud England keep, untamed,

The strong heart of her sons !

So, let his name through Europe ring

A man of mean estate

Who died, as firm as Sparta's king,

Because his soul was great.

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SIR F. H. DOYLE.

THE PICTURE.

A TALE.

A PORTRAIT, at my lord's command,
Completed by a master hand,
His lordship bid the critics tell,
Whether the work was finish'd well.

"Why," says the loudest, on my word,
'Tis not a likeness, good my lord;
Nor, to be plain, for speak I must,
Can I pronounce one feature just."
Another effort straight was made,
Another portraiture essay'd;
The judges were again besought,
Each to deliver what he thought.

"Worse than the first!" the critics bawl;

"O what a mouth; how monstrous small!

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Look at the cheeks-how lank and thin!
See what a most prepost'rous chin!"
After remonstrance, made in vain,
"I'll," says the painter, once again,
(If my good lord vouchsafes to sit)
Try for a more successful hit :
If you'll to-morrow deign to call,
We'll have a piece to please you all.”
To-morrow comes-a picture's placed
Before those spurious sons of taste.
In their opinions all agree,

This is the vilest of the three.

66 Know-to confute your envious pride" (His lordship from the canvas cried),

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"Know that it is my real face

Where you could no resemblance trace:

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I've tried you by a lucky trick,

And proved your genius to the quick.
Void of all judgment-justice-sense,
Out, ye pretending varlets-hence!"
The connoisseurs depart in haste,
Despised-detected—and disgraced.

J. CUNNINGHAM.

A DAUGHTER TO HER mother,
ON HER BIRTHDAY.

NEVER looks the evening-scene

So enchantingly serene
As on this returning day,
When, in spirit rapt away,

Joys and sorrows I have known,
In the years for ever flown,
Wake at every sound and sight,
Reminiscence of delight,

All around me, all above,
Witnessing a Mother's love.

Love, that watch'd my early years
With conflicting hopes and fears;
Love, that through life's flowery May
Led my childhood, prone to stray;
Love, that still directs my youth
With the constancy of Truth,
Heightens every bliss it shares,
Softens and divides the cares,
Smiles away my light distress,
Weeps for joy or tenderness:
-May that love, to latest age,
Cheer my earthly pilgrimage;

May that love, o'er death victorious,
Rise beyond the grave more glorious;
Souls, united here, would be

One to all eternity.

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And when good old age is past,
Heaven's eternal peace at last!
But with these I frame a vow
For a double blessing now;
One, that richly shall combine
Your felicity with mine;

One, in which with soul and voice,
Both together may rejoice;

O what shall that blessing be?
-Dearest Mother! may you see
All your prayers fulfill'd for me!

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(Abridged.)

J. MONTGOMERY.

MARGARET WILSON.

FOUR children at their little play
Across the iron-furrow'd way;
Joyous in all the joy of May.

Three, babies; and one, Margaret,
In charge upon the others set,
To lift and soothe them if they fret.

The sky is blue; the sun is bright;
The little voices pure and light,
Make music as they laugh outright.
The noiseless weight of giant wheels
Amongst them in a moment steals,
And death is rolling at their heels.

She ran with one to reach the side,

And reach'd it, and look'd back, and spied,

Where the dark wheels right towards them slide, 15

The other two, that were forgot,

Playing by Death, and knowing not;

And drew them to the narrow spot.

Beneath the rails and platform side
Safe nestling-down ;-but as they glide
The wheel-rods struck her, and she died.

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By those she died for there she lay,
Nor any word could Margaret say,
But closed her eyes, and pass'd away.

-My little heroine! though I ne'er
Can look upon thy features fair
Nor kiss the lips that mangled were:

Too small a thing from Fame to have
A portion with the great and brave,
And unknown in thy lowly grave:

Yet thy true heart, and fearless faith,
And agony of love in death

God saw, and He remembereth.

F. T. PALGRAVE.

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THE MORNING CONTEMPLATION.

As I range these spacious fields,
Feast on all that nature yields;
Ev'ry thing conspires delight,

Charms my smell, my taste, my sight;

Ev'ry rural sound I hear,

Soothes my soul, and tunes my ear.

Yonder azure hills arising,

Peeping through the wide horizon;

Strive for the priority,

Which shall first salute my eye :

Gentle winds, each sweet adorning,

Breathe the wholesome breath of morning;

Jocund carols to the spring;

Birds on blossom'd hawthorns, sing

Hopping o'er the fragrant lawn,

Merrily salute the dawn,

And with their music seem to chide

Man's ingratitude and pride.

W. PATTISON.

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