But, oh! there were hearts cherished far other feelings,
Illumed by the light of prophetic revealings,

Who drank from the scenery of beauty but sorrow,
For they knew that their blood would bedew it to-morrow.

'Twas the few faithful ones who with Cameron were lying,
Concealed 'mong the mist where the heath-fowl was crying,
For the horsemen of Earlshall around them were hovering,
And their bridle reins rung through the thin misty covering

Their faces grew pale, and their swords were unsheathed, But the vengeance that darkened their brow was un breathed;

With eyes turned to heaven in calm resignation,
They sung their last song to the God of Salvation.

The hills with the deep mournful music were ringing,
The curlew and plover in concert were singing;
But the melody died 'mid derision and laughter,
As the host of ungodly rushed on to the slaughter.

Though in mist and in darkness and fire they were shrouded,
Yet the souls of the righteous were calm and unclouded.
Their dark eyes flashed lightning, as, firm and unbending,
They stood like the rock which the thunder is rending.

The muskets were flashing, the blue swords were gleaming,
The helmets were cleft, and the red blood was streaming,
The heavens grew dark, and the thunder was rolling,
When in Wellwood's dark muirlands the mighty were falling

When the righteous had fallen, and the combat was ended,
A chariot of fire through the dark clouds descended;
Its drivers were angels on horses of whiteness,
And its burning wheels turned on axles of brightness.

A seraph unfolded its doors bright and shining,
All dazzling like gold of the seventh refining,
And the souls that came forth out of great tribulation,
Have mounted the chariots and steeds of salvation.

On the arch.of the rainbow the chariot is gliding,
Through the path of the thunder the horsemen are riding;
Glide swiftly, bright spirits! the prize is before ye,
A crown never fading, a kingdom of glory!

Thomas Hood.

{

Born 1798

Died 1845

THIS poet, humorist, and accomplished writer, was born in London. his father being a bookseller there. Hood was sent to a merchant's office early in life, but his health failing, he was sent to Dundee to recruit, and on his return to London was apprenticed to an engraver, under whom he learned much of the art which was useful to him in his after career. In 1821 he adopted literature as a profession, and was appointed to the editorship of the London Magazine, which he held till its discontinuance. Hood was a busy writer, and enlivened the weeklies and monthlies with his wit and humour. He is the author of several volumes of poetry and prose; but the piece by which he is best known is "The Song of the Shirt," which first appeared in "Punch." It struck home to the sympathies of man's nature, and aroused the feelings of a benevolent public in favour of the poor seamstress. After a long and

wasting illness, Hood died 3d May 1845.

THE SONG OF THE SHIRT.

WITH fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread.
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch
She sang the " Song of the Shirt!"

"Work-work-work!

While the cock is crowing aloof!

And work-work-work!

Till the stars shine through the roof!

It's oh! to be a slave,

Along with the barbarous Turk,
Where woman has never a soul to save,
If this is Christian work!

"Work-work-work!

Till the brain begins to swim;
Work-work-work!

Till the eyes are heavy and dim!

Seam, and gusset, and band,
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Till over the buttons I fall asleep,

And sew them on in a dream!

"O men, with sisters dear!

O men, with mothers and wives, It is not linen you're wearing out! But human creatures' lives! Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt; Sewing at once, with a double thread. A shroud as well as a shirt.

"Work-work-work!

My labour never flags;

And what are its wages? A bed of straw,

A crust of bread, and rags.

That shattered roof-and this naked floor

A table a broken chair;

And a wall so blank, my shadow I thank
For sometimes falling there!

"Oh! but to breathe the breath

Of the cowslip and primrose sweet

With the sky above my head,

And the grass beneath my feet,
For only one short hour
To feel as I used to feel,
Before I knew the woes of want,
And the walk that costs a meal!

"Oh, but for one short hour!

A respite however brief!

No blessed leisure for love or hope,
But only time for grief!

A little weeping would ease my heart,
But in their briny bed

My tears must stop, for every drop
Hinders needle and thread."

With fingers weary and worn,
With eyelids heavy and red,
A woman sat, in unwomanly rags,
Plying her needle and thread
Stitch-stitch-stitch!

In poverty, hunger, and dirt;
And still with a voice of dolorous pitch,

Would that its tone could reach the rich!

She sang this "Song of the Shirt!"

A PARENTAL ODE TO MY SON.

THоU happy, happy elf!

(But stop-first let me kiss away that tear)
Thou tiny image of myself!

(My love, he's poking peas into his ear!)
Thou merry, laughing sprite!
With spirits feather light,

Untouched by sorrow, and unsoiled by sin,
(Good heavens! the child is swallowing a pin!)

Thou little tricksy Puck!

With antic toys so funnily bestuck,

Light as the singing bird that wings the air,
(The door! the door! he'll tumble down the stair!)
Thou darling of thy sire!

(Why, Jane, he'll set his pinafore afire!)
Thou imp of mirth and joy!

In love's dear chain so strong and bright a link,
Thou idol of thy parents (Drat the boy!
There goes my ink!)

Thou cherub-but of earth;

Fit playfellow for Fays by moonlight pale,
In harmless sport and mirth,

(That dog will bite him if he pulls its tail!)
Thou human humming-bee, extracting honey
From every blossom in the world that blows,
Singing in youth's Elysium ever sunny,
(Another tumble-that's his precious nose!)
Thy father's pride and hope!

(He'll break the mirror with that skipping-rope!)
With pure heart newly stamped from nature's mint,
(Where did he learn that squint?)

David Macbeth Moir. {

Born 1798

Died 1851.

THE well known Delta (A) of "Blackwood's Magazine" was born at Musselburgh, near Edinburgh, in 1798. He passed through the University with credit, and commenced practice as a surgeon in his native town, where he continued till his death. At the age of nineteen he sent his first verses to the press, and for thirty years he continued to enrich

"Blackwood" with a series of poems, remarkable for their depth and purity of feeling. In the same magazine was first published "Mansie Wauch," a prose embodiment of Scottish character of the richest humour. He died in 1851.

FROM "THE BIRTH OF THE FLOWERS."

A VISION.

ONCE on a time, when all was still,
When midnight mantled vale and hill,
And over earth the stars were keeping
Their lustrous watch, it has been said,
A poet on his couch lay sleeping,

As pass'd a vision through his head:
It may be rash-it can't be wrong
To pencil what he saw in song;
And if we go not far amiss,
'Twas this—or something like to this.
Firstly, through parting mists, his eye

The snowy mountain-peaks explored,
Where, in the dazzling gulfs of sky,

The daring eagle wheeled and soared;
And, as subsiding lower, they
Owned the bright empire of the day,
Softly arrayed in living green,
The summits of the hills were seen,

On which the orient radiance played,
Girt with their garlands of broad trees,
Whose foliage twinkled in the breeze,

And formed a lattice-work of shade:
And darker still, and deeper still,
As widened out each shelving hill,
Dispersing placidly they showed,
The destined plains for man's abode-
Meadow, and mount, and champaign wide;

And sempiternal forests, where

Wild beasts and birds find food and lair;

And verdant copse by river side,

Which threading these-a silver line-

Was seen afar to wind and shine

Down to the mighty sea that wound
Islands and continents around,

And, like a snake of monstrous birth,
In its grim folds encircled earth'