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Then shake from sleeves and pockets their broad-pieces

and lockets, The tokens of the wanton, the plunder of the poor.

* Where be your tongues that late mocked at heaven and

hell and fate, And the fingers that once were so busy with your

blades ; Your perfum'd satin clothes, your catches and your oaths, Your stage-plays and your sonnets, your diamonds and

your spades? Down, down, for ever down, with the mitre and the

crown, With the Belial of the Court, and the Mammon of the

Pope; There is woe in Oxford Halls; there is wail in Durham's

Stalls ; The Jesuit smites his bosom ; the Bishop rends his cope. And She of the seven hills shall mourn her children's ills, And tremble when she thinks on the edge of England's

sword; And the kings of earth in fear, shall shudder when they

hear What the hand of God hath wrought for the Houses

and the Word.

LONGING FOR HOME.Miss Jean Ingelow.

A SONG of a boat :There was once a boat on a billow :

Lightly she rocked to her port remote,
And the foam was white in her wake like snow,
And her frail mast bowed when the breeze would blow,

And bent like a wand of willow.
I shaded mine eyes one day when a boat

Went curtseying over the billow,
I marked her course till a dancing mote
She faded out on the moonlit foam,
And I stayed behind in the dear loved home;

And my thoughts all day were about the boat,

And my dreams upon the pillow.
I pray you hear my song of a boat,

For it is but short :
My boat, you shall find none fairer afloat,

In river or port.
Long I looked out for the lad she bore,

On the open desolate sea,
And I think he sailed to the heavenly shore,
For he came not back to me-

Ah me!
A song of a nest :-
There was once a nest in a hollow,
Down in the mosses and knot-grass pressed,

Soft and warm, and full to the brim;
Vetches leaned over it purple and dim,
With buttercup buds to follow.
I pray you hear my song of a nest,

For it is not long :-
You shall never light in a summer quest

The bushes among-
Shall never light on a prouder sitter,

A fairer nestful, nor ever know
A softer sound than their tender twitter,

That wind-like did come and go.
I had a nestful once of my own,

Ah happy, happy I! Right dearly I loved them : but when they were grown

They spread out their wings to fly-
O, one after one they flew away

Far up to the heavenly blue,
To the better country, the upper day,

And I wish I was going too.
I pray you, what is the nest to me,

My empty nest ?
And what is the shore where I stood to see

My boat sail down to the west ?
Can I call that home where I anchor yet,

Though my good man has sailed ?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,

Now all its hope hath failed P
Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be :
There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me-

Ab me !

LOCHIEL'S WARNING.-Campbell. Wizard. LOCHIEL, Lochiel ! beware of the day When the Lowlands shall meet thee in battle array ! For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, And the clans of Culloden are scatter'd in fight. They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and crown; Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down! Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. But hark! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, What steed to the desert flies frantic and far? 'Tis thine, O Glenullin ! whose bride shall await, Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. A steed comes at morning : no rider is there ; But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. Weep, Albin! to death and captivity led ! Oh weep ! but thy tears cannot number the dead : For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, Culloden! that reeks with the blood of the brave. Lochiel. Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling

seer ! Or, if gory Culloden so dreadful

appear, Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight, This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. Wizard. Ha! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to

scorn? Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be torn! Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the north ? Lo! the death-shot of foemen outspeeding, he rode Companionless, bearing destruction abroad; But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! Ah! home let him speed,- for the spoiler is nigh!

Why flames the far summit? Why shoot to the blast
Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ?
'Tis the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven
From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of heaven.
Oh, crested Lochiel! the peerless in might,
Whose banners arise on the battlements' height,
Heaven's fire is around to blast and to burn;
Return to thy dwelling! all lonely return !
For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it stood,
And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing brood.
Lochiel. False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshalld my

clan,
Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one !
They are true to the last of their blood and their breath,
And like reapers descend to the harvest of death.
Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock!
Let him dash his proud foam like a wave on the rock!
But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause,
When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ;
When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd,
Clanronald the dauntless, and Moray the proud,
All plaided and plumed in their tartan array

Wizard.-Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day: For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal, But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 'Tis the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, And coming events cast their shadows before. I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring, With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive king. Lo! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my sight; Rise, rise! ye wild tempests, and cover his flight! 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the moors; Culloden is lost, and my country deplores. But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where? For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish’d, forlorn, Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and torn ? Ah, no! for a darker departure is near ; The war-drum is muffied, and black is the bier ; His death-bell is tolling : oh! mercy, dispel

Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell !
Life flutters convulsed in his quivering linibs,
And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims.
Accursed be the faggots, that blaze at his feet,
Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to beat,
With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale-

Loch.Down, soothless insulter! I trust not the tale :
For never shall Albin a destiny meet,
So black with dishonour, so foul with retreat.
Tho'my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their gore,
Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore,
Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains,
While the kindling of life in his bosom remains,
Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low,
With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe!
And leaving in battle no blot on his name,
Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of fame.

WESTMINSTER BRIDGE.-Wordsworth.
EARTH has not anything to show more fair :
Dull would he be of soul who could pass by
A sight so touching in its majesty :
This city now doth like a garment wear
The beauty of the morning ; silent, bare,
Ships, towers, domes, theatres, and temples lie
Open into the fields, and to the sky ;
All bright and glittering in the smokeless air,
Never did sun more beautifully steep,
In his first splendour, valley, rock, or hill ;
Ne’er saw I, never felt, a calm so deep!
The river glideth at his own sweet will :
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep ;

And all that mighty heart is lying still.
JULIUS CÆSAR, ACT IV., PART OF SCENE III.

Shakspeare.

Enter BRUTUS and CASSIUS. Cas. That you have wronged me doth appear in this : You have condemned and noted Lucius Pella For taking bribes here of the Sardians;

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