"Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine a vain thing?" Not unpleasing always, mostly 'tis feeble, yet stilted, Wanting, in wanting ease, the might which is mightiest, beauty. Yet can it finely paint the beauty of form and of colour; Skies, and the sea; or mountains cloud-like in distance, and stealing Azure from heav'n; or the daisy fresh in the dewgleam of dawn; or Young June's blush-tinted hawthorn, that scatters the now of its dropp'd flowers Over the faded cowslip, and roses embraced by the woodbine, Under the mute, or songful, or thunder-whispering forest; But from man's heart seldom it brings the tear, which the angels, Knowing not sorrow, might almost in their blessed ness envy. Slow or rapid, sweet or solemn, in Greek and in Latin, It is in English undignified, loose, and worse than the worst prose. One advantage it has-it must be utter'd as prose is; And as it may be wanted, if only as changes are wanted, I subjoin the rule for its fitting or modern construction: Every line must consist of six feet, dactyls and spon dees, Dactyls and trochees, or dactyls and both: A dactyl the fifth foot Must be; a spondee or trochee the sixth: Each line must contain not More than sixteen syllables, and not fewer than thir teen. BULLY IDLE'S PRAYER. LORD, send us weeks of Sundays, No work, and double pay! Tell Short and Long they're both short now; Let Louis Blanc take Ashley's cow, And Richmond give him hay !* * Twenty-four years ago our Protectionists had notice given them, by me, that they would have imitators; and they must not be allowed to forget, that out of their cornlaws sprung the Trade's Union which is now (March 1848) the French government! HYMN. STILL for rest on Sabbath day, Toil till death for pauper's pay, WILL IT RAIN? "BREAD!" the starver faintly sigheth; When the forest breatheth deeply, Not a leaf the mute heav'ns under; VOL. II. P GOOD MEN'S GRAVES. LONE, they rest. Nor Snap, nor Snivel, Robs, or pities virtue's dust! Marble insults, Cant and Drivel Build not o'er the just. Them, in thought, the honest only Read they on the wordless sod, "These men's deeds will speak, to-morrow; They are words of God; Heard in heav'n, with tears of gladness; Mute on earth! yet working there; Bringing chains for rapine's madness, YOUNG POET'S PLAINT. GOD, release our dying sister! Beauteous blight hath sadly kiss'd her: Famine in her face discloses Mute submission, patience holy, Passing fair! but passing slowly. Though she said, "You know I'm dying," In her heart green trees are sighing; Not of them hath pain bereft her, In the city, where we left her: "Bring," she said, "a hedgeside blossom!" Love shall lay it on her bosom. ARTISAN'S OUTDOOR HYMN. AGAIN, oh, Lord, we humbly pray |