The Sire hath rear'd a throne-
Perchance a funeral pyre.
Beneath chained thunders groan,
And glows volcanic fire;
An earthquake shock may rend
The hollow-heaving earth,
And from the gulf ascend
A newer, sterner birth !

The Titans of the press—

The powers of speech and mindEach in his dark recess,

Like Samson, shorn and blindMay rise in strength and light, And, chainless, walk abroad; Their motto-Human right,

Our country, and our God!

THE LOWLY SONG OF A LOWLY BARD.

"WE are lowly, very lowly:"

Low the bard, and low the song;
Lowly thou, my own dear village;
Lowly those I dwell among.

From my lowly home of childhood
Low sweet voices fill my ears,
Till my drooping lids grow heavy
With the weight of tender tears.

Low in station, low in labour,

Low in all that worldlings prize,
Till the voice say, "Come up hither,"
To a mansion in the skies.

From that lowly cot the sainted

Rose from earth's low cares and woes;
From that lowly couch, my mother

To her home in heaven arose.

C

In that cot, so lone and lowly,

(Childhood's hand might reach the thatch), God was felt, and o'er the dwellers Angel eyes kept loving watch.

Lowly heart, and lowly bearing,

Heaven and earth will best approve. Jesus! Thou wert meek and lowlyLow on earth, but Lord above.

Yet, not low my aspirations:
High and strong my soul's desire
To assist my toiling brothers
Upward, onward to aspire.

Upward to the heaven above us,
Onward in the march of mind,
Upward to the shrine of freedom,
Onward, working for our kind.

This to you my working brothers
I inscribe; may nothing low
Dwell in mind, in heart, or habit;
Upward look, and onward go.

A MEMORY.

BANKS OF CALDER AND COUSIN DORA.

STRAYING, musing, singing, dreaming,
'Neath the leafy banners streaming,
Fleck'd with golden sunbeams gleaming
Through the woodland's dun;

On lone Calder's banks reclining,
Where the brier and hazel, twining,
Screen me from the fervid shining,
Of the noontide sun.

Sweet thy soft melodious gushing,
Sylvan stream! and sweet the hushing
Of the breeze, with soft breath pushing
Wide the opening flowers;

Pendant honeysuckles flinging

Fragrance round; the woodbine clinging
Round the elm; bird-music ringing
In thy birchen bowers.

Through thy waters-rippling, dancing, Where the minnow shoals are glancing— Slow I wade, and, still advancing,

Reach the farther shore;

Lightly bounding o'er the shingles,

Through my limbs the warm blood tingles; With the birds my wild song mingles, Trilling o'er and o'er.

Up the dell, all panting, glowing,
Where the foxgloves tall are growing,
Where the wild brier-roses, blowing,
Scent the summer air;

Where the weeping willow stoopeth,
Where the silver runnel scoopeth
Out her bed; where hyacinth droopeth,
Slender, meek, and fair.

Where the silver birch is waving,
Where the crystal well-spring laving,
Busy bees their treasures saving,
Stands a lonely cot,

Bower'd in jessamine and roses;
Flora there her wealth discloses,
Freely there her charms exposes,
On that lovely spot.