That swell again!—now full and high
The tide of feeling flows along,
And many a thought that claims a sigh
Seems mingling with the magic song.

The forms I loved-and loved in vain,
The hopes I nursed-to see them die,
With fleetness, brightness, through my brain
In phantom beauty wander by.

Then touch the lyre, my own dear love!
My soul is like a troubled sea,

And turns from all below, above,
In fondness, to the harp and thee!

BE STILL, BE STILL, POOR HUMAN HEART.

ELEANORA L. MONTAGU (Mrs. T. K. HERVEY).

BE still, be still, poor human heart,
What fitful fever shakes thee now?
The earth's most lovely things depart-
And what art thou?

Thy spring than earth's doth sooner fade,
Thy blossoms first with poison fill;
To sorrow born, for suffering made,-
Poor heart! be still.

Thou lookest to the clouds,-they fleet;
Thou turnest to the waves, they falter;
The flower that decks the shrine, though sweet,
Dies on its altar:

And thou, more changeful than the cloud,
More restless than the wandering rill,

Like that lone flower in silence bow'd,

Poor heart! be still.

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

II. F. CHORLEY. The music by E. J. LODER.

A SONG to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who hath ruled in the greenwood long;
Here's health and renown to his broad green crown,
And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown when the sun goes down
And the fire in the west fades out;

And he sheweth his might on a wild midnight
When the storm through his branches shout.
Then here's to the oak, the brave old oak,
Who stands in his pride alone;

And still flourish he, a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone!

In the days of old, when the spring with cold
Had brighten'd his branches grey,

Through the grass at his feet crept maidens sweet
To gather the dew of May;

And on that day to the rebeck gay

They frolick'd with lovesome swains:

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid; But the tree it still remains.

Then here's, &c.

He saw the rare times when the Christmas chimes
Were merry sounds to hear;

When the squire's wide hall and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway, we all obey,

And a ruthless king is be;

But he never shall send our ancient friend

To be toss'd on the stormy sea.

Then here's, &c.

TUBAL CAIN.

CHARLES MACKAY. Music by JOHN GRAY, and by HENRY RUSSELL.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright

The strokes of his hammer rung:

And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,
As he fashion'd the sword and spear.
"Hurrah for my handiwork!

And he sang,

Hurrah for the spear and sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord!”

To Tubal Cain came many a one

As he wrought by his roaring fire,

And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire:

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,

And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.

And they sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Who hath given us strength anew!

Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire!
And hurrah for the metal true!

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was fill'd with pain

For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind;

That the land was red with the blood they shed

In their lust for carnage, blind.

And he said, "Alas! that ever I made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear

and the sword for men whose joy

Is to slay their fellow-man !"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain
Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forebore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoulder'd low:
But he rose at last with a cheerful face
And a bright courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high:
And he sang,
Hurrah for my handiwork!"

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And the red sparks lit the air

"Not alone for the blade was the bright steel made;" And he fashion'd the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship join'd their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And plough'd the willing lands;

And sang,

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Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Our stanch good friend is he;

And for the ploughshare and the plough

To him our praise shall be.

But while Oppression lifts its head,
Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,

We'll not forget the sword."

SONG FOR TWILIGHT.

BARRY CORNWALL.

HIDE me, O twilight air!

Hide me from thought, from care,
From all things foul or fair,
Until to-morrow!

To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar:
Come, sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst pain and sorrow!

If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams;
Be mine by morning streams
To watch and wander:

ELIZA COOK. The music by HENRY RUSSELL,

I LOVE it, I love it, and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedewed it with tears, I've embalmed it with sighs; "Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start.

Would you know the spell?-a mother sat there!
And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die,-to teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide
With truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

I sat and watch'd her many a day,

When her eye grew dim, and her locks were grey;
And I almost worshipp'd her when she smil'd,
And turn'd from her Bible to bless her child.
Years roll'd on, but the last one sped-
My idol was shatter'd, my earth-star fled!
I learnt how much the heart can bear.
When I saw her die in her old arm-chair.