art of composition becomes a weapon, eloquence is action; tyranny finds itself attacked by its most formidable foes, reason and indignation; and what is called 'protection,' being of the very essence of despotism, all tyrants have dreaded and hated the natural enemies of 'protection'-men who, thinking deeply, speak honestly, that is, fearlessly." Yet when we complain of the greatest wrong ever inflicted on the world by a faction, we are told we must speak meekly of its authors-cauterize with milk and water-and by no means convert a sarcasm into an argument, as if it were possible to address to such persons a sarcasm which is not an argument ! That it is not possible I will endeavour to demonstrate. Instead of the word " argument" then, read "gallows;" and I will defy them to show that it ever was more properly applied as a punishment to any criminal, than it might be to about five hundred of their number, whom it would be easy to name, and, perhaps, in the highest degree prudent. LYRICS FOR MY DAUGHTERS. SONG. Ye Banks and Braes O Bonny Doon. Он, Love, thou art a heav'n on earth, Beneath dim star, and clouded moon, SONG. Auld Lang Syne. "THE Home of Taste," say souls of dust, "Is not for men who toil: For bread alone they till, and must, Life's hopeless soil." But here comes he whom no one knows, Red Rose, that lov'st the cottage door, Why stops a wretch so tired and poor, Oh, yet the greatest and the least A Home of Taste will find! And Knowledge spread her beauteous feast For all mankind! The only high and heart-based throne For who are great? The good alone, And what, sweet rose, sweet hawthorn flower, To hind, or artisan, Are Taste's pure charm, and Beauty's power, But God in Man? CHANT. THE angels are our brothers; Let us like them become, And emulate in beauty The first-born of our home: Lord! we are thine, and they are thine: In rescued Eden, let us twine With mortal virtues love divine, And be earth's angels ! SONG. The Light of other Days. WHEN days of frost and snow were over, I told the sleepless moon, I told the stars, that my true lover Would see his Mary soon: Now, children seek the daisied closes, Ere wintry days again are over, I shall not need a faithless lover, Oh, Woodbine flower, our last was spoken Oh, wild Hedge Rose, my heart is broken! SONG. Long Ago. SING her a song of the white-headed one, Wide, wide waves o'er! Wide waves o'er! |