I am not; I am just! I found France rent asunder
The rich men despots, the poor banditti;

Sloth in the mart, and schism within the temple;
Brawls festering to rebellion, and weak laws
Rotting away with rust in antique sheaths.
I have re-created France; and, from the ashes
Of the old feudal and decrepit carcass,
Civilization, on her luminous wings,

Soars, phoenix-like, to Jove! What was my art?
Genius, some say; some, fortune; witchcraft some.
Not so. My art was JUSTICE!

THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS.

O. W. HOLMES.

This is the ship of pearl which, poets foign,
Sails the unshadowed main-

The venturous bark that flings

On the sweet summer wind its purple wings
In gulfs enchanted, where the siren sings,
And coral reefs lie bare,

Where the cold sea-maids rise to sun their streaming hair.

Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl;
Wrecked is the ship of pearl

And every chambered cell

Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell,
As the frail tenant shaped his growing shell,
Before thee lies revealed-

Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed.

Year after year beheld the silent toil

That spread his lustrous coil;

Still as the spiral grew,

He left the past year's dwelling for the new,

Stole with soft steps its shining archway through,

Built up its idle door,

Stretched in his last found home, and knew the old no more.

1

Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee,
Child of the wandering sea,

Cast from her lap forlorn!

From thy dead lips a clearer note is borne

Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn!

While on mine ear it rings,

Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:

Build me more stately mansions, O my soul!
As the swift seasons roll,

Leave thy low-vaulted past!

Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from Heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,

Leaving thine outgrown shell by Life's unresting sea!

THE WOMAN OF THREE COWS.

JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN.

O, woman of three cows, agrah! don't let your tongue thus rattle!
O, don't be saucy, don't be stiff, because you may have cattle!
I've seen and here's my hand to you, I only say what's true-
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you! don't scorn the poor, and don't be their despiser,
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser;
And death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human

brows;

Then don't be stiff, and don't be proud, good woman of three cows!

See where Mononea's heroes lie, proud Owen More's descendants!
'Tis they that won the glorious name and had the grand attendants.
If they were forced to bow to Fate as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my woman of three cows?

The brave sons of the Lord of Clarc, they left the land to mourning;
Morrone for they were banished, with no hope of their returning.

Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to

house?

Yet you can give yourself these airs, O, woman of three cows!

O, think of Donnel of the ships, the chief whom nothing daunted—
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!
He sleeps, the great O'Sullivan, where thunder cannot rouse;
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good woman of three cows?

Your neighbor's poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas, Because, forsooth, you've got three cows-one more, I see, than she has.

That tongue of yours wags more at times than charity allows;
But if you're strong, be merciful, great woman of three cows!

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful

bearing,

And I'm too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak I'm wearing, If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse, I'd scold you well to cure your pride, my woman of three cows!

LIFE.

ANNA LETETIA BARBAULD.

Life! I know not what thou ert,
But know that thou and I must part.

And when, or where, or how me met,

I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we have been long together,

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather;

'Tis hard to part when friends are dear—

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear.

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good Night; but, in some brighter clime,
Bid me Good Morning.

WAT TYLER'S ADDRESS TO THE KING.

ROBERT SOUTHEY.

King of England!

Petitioning for pity is most weak

The sovereign people ought to demand justice.
I lead them here against the Lord's anointed,
Because his ministers have made him odious !
His yoke is heavy and his burden grievous.
Why do ye carry on this fatal war,

To force upon the French a king they hate?
Tearing our young men from their peaceful homes,
Forcing his hard-earned fruits from the honest peasant,
Distressing us to desolate our neighbors ?
Why is this ruinous poll-tax imposed,
But to support your court's extravagance,
And your mad title to the crown of France?
Shall we sit tamely down beneath these evils,
Petitioning for pity? King of England!
Why are we sold like cattle in your markets,
Deprived of every privilege of man?
Must we lie tamely at our tyrants' feet,

And, like your spaniels, lick the hand that beats us?
You sit at ease in your gay palaces;

The costly banquet courts your appetite;

Sweet music soothes your slumbers: we, the while,
Scarce by hard toil can earn a little food,

And sleep scarce sheltered from the cold night-wind,
Whilst your wild projects wrest the little from us
Which might have cheered the wintry hours of age!
The Parliament forever asks more money;

We toil and sweat for money for your taxes.
Where is the benefit, what good reap we

From all the counsels of your government?
Think you that we should quarrel with the French?
What boots to us your victories, your glory?

We pay, we fight-you profit at your ease!

Do you not claim the country as your own?
Do you not call the venison of the forest,
The birds of Heaven, your own-prohibiting us,
Even though in want of food, to seize the prey
Which Nature offers? King! is all this just?
Think you we do not feel the wrongs we suffer?
The hour of retribution is at hand,

And tyrants tremble-mark me, King of England!

TOUJOURS AMOUR.

E. C. STEDMAN.

Prithee, tell me, Dimple-Chin,
At what age does love begin?
Your blue eyes have scarcely seen
Summers three, my fairy queen.
But a miracle of sweets,
Soft approaches, sly retreats,
Show the little archer there,

Hidden in your pretty hair;

When did'st learn a heart to win?

Prithee, tell me, Dimple-Chin!

"Oh," the rosy lips reply,

"I can't tell you, if I try—
'Tis so long I can't remember;
Ask some younger lass than I."

Tell, oh, tell me, Grizzled-Face,
Do your heart and head keep pace?
When does hoary Love expire ?
When do frosts put out the fire?
Can its embers burn below
All that chill December snow?
Care you still soft hands to press?
Bonny heads to smoothe and bless?
When does Love give up the chase?