Do we loathe the beastly orgies
Of the negro breeding pens?
Look within our thousand brothels,
Viler far then negro dens.

Why do we descern so clearly
Beams that dim our brother's eye,
While the motes, that mar our vision,
We so seldom can descry?

Heritage of British freeman

Never can a drunkard claim; Slave of drink, and thrall of misery, His the heritage of shame.

Men of temperance, men of action,
Ye who work, and think, and feel,
For the cause heaven smiles upon you,
Labouring for your country's weal.

On the battle-field of temperance,
Are no garments rolled in blood!
Nor the sound of shouting warrior
Wading in the purple flood.

Patriotic zeal and pity,

Effort born of brother love,

These your arms go on and conquer,
Success waits you from above.

Р

Prose Pieces.

THE USES AND PLEASURES OF POETRY FOR THE WORKING CLASSES.

I HAVE often thought and felt it to be matter of deep regret that working-men and women, in consequence of their social position, and the want of means and leisure, are to a great extent debarred from the attainment of the elegant tastes and refined perceptions acquired by those on whom the gifts of fortune, and a desire of improving and adorning their minds, have conferred the high advantages of a liberal and finished education. Still, the working-man who is a good English reader, and possessed of an intellectual cast of mind, seasoned with a dash of fancy and feeling-although he may never have offered up his personal devotions at the shrine of the Muses, or ever essayed to "build the lofty rhyme"-thanks to the facilities afforded by cheap literature!-may yet indulge a taste for the grand and beautiful, and be quite as capable of appreciating the treasures contained in the sublime effusions of our best poets, as if he had ascended through all the gradations of learning from the parish school to

the finale of a classical education in the patrician halls of Oxford or Cambridge. The work-man may never be able to "tread the classic shores of Italy;" he may never feast his eyes on the glorious monuments of antiquity which surround the eternal city; he may never roam the sunny land of Greece,

"Land of the Muses and of mighty men;"

nor glide with oar and sail over the gorgeous waters of the Golden Horn; nor wander over

and feel

"Syria's land of roses,"

"The light wings of zephyr, oppressed with perfume,"

fanning his cheek amid the roses of Sharon in the Holy Land.

No; the workman, as such, will probably never see, except in dreams, these lands of song and story, nor gaze upon the glowing scenes where all that is grand and beautiful in nature and art combine to trance the soul in admiration; but still he can, when the toils of the day are ended, retire to his home, and having performed his ablutions, and solaced himself with

he then,

"The cup which cheers but not inebriates,"

"When worldly crowds retire to revel or to rest,"

can

"Trim his little fire,"

or light his frugal taper; and while holding communion with the spirits of the mighty masters of song in their immortal pages, may feel every noble principle of his

mind strengthened, every emotion of his heart warmed and purified, and every feeling refined and elevated. Does his heart beat and his pulse throb with sorrow and indignation at the wrongs and sufferings of the Magyars

"When leagued oppression poured to Northern wars

Her whiskered pandoors and her fierce huzzars?”

Then will he feel the full force of the sentiment expressed by the bard when he exclaimed

"Oh! bloodiest picture in the book of Time,

Sarmatia fell, unwept, without a crime!"

Or, does all the soul of man stir within him and leap out to those men who feel for, speak for, write for, nay, who spend and are spent for the cause of

"Yonder poor o'er-laboured wights,

So abject, mean, and vile,
Who beg a brother of the earth

To give them leave to toil?"

Yes, to those large-hearted men who are striving to heal the sores of the beggar Lazarus, and teaching him how to obtain a nobler meal than the crumbs which fall from the rich man's table; and will not his heart respond in

"Thoughts that breathe, and words that burn,"

to the fervid rhymes launched by the muse of Elliott at those who, like Dives, are "clothed in purple and fine linen, and fare sumptuously every day," and yet see unmoved their poor brethren laid down to perish at their gates? And when his faith is assailed, and his ears pained by the cavillings of the Deist or the sneers of the Infidel amongst the associates of his labour, let

him turn to the sublime thoughts of Young, the poet of the night, where awful truths, arrayed in solemn. and majestic garb, shall uncurl the lip of the scoffer and silence the cavils of the sceptic; or with Cowper he will deplore

"The quenchless thirst of ruinous inebriety,

The stale debauch forth issuing from the styes
Which law has licensed.

While ten thousand casks,
For ever dribbling forth their base contents
Touched by the Midas finger of the State,

Bleed gold for Ministers to sport withal."

And will he not at times rise on the wings of fancy, and hover enraptured over the bright world of scenic creations produced by the magic pencil of him, the great poet, painter, and worshipper of nature, glorious Shakspeare? And when he hails the return of the thrice-blessed and thrice welcome day of sacred rest --that true well in the desert, in whose cool and sparkling waters the working-man, weary and panting from the dusty ways of life, will slake his parching thirst, and lave his flushed and throbbing temples; and then,

"If summer be the tide, and sweet the hour,"

let him wander forth to the green woodlands, or recline on the fragrant meadow, with the Bard of Paradise for his companion, and soon the Miltonic Muse shall waft him aloft on her ethereal pinions to the sanctuary of God, there to listen with rapt adoration to the eternal councils of peace between the Father and Son on the future salvation of man; or his heart may be attuned to the melodies of heaven, and in spirit he can join in