That stopped his sport to run and ask his sire
What it all meant, picked out the simple tale,-
How he who drove the French from Waterloo,
And crushed the tyrant of the world, and made
His country great and glorious, he was dead.
All, from the simplest to the stateliest, knew
But one sad story, from the cottar's bairn
Up to the fair-haired lady on the throne,
Who sat within and sorrowed for her friend:
And every tear she shed became her well,
And seemed more lovely in her people's eyes
Than all the starry wonders of her crown.

But, as the waters of the Northern Sea, (When one strong wind blows steady from the pole), Come hurrying to the shore, and far and wide As eye can reach the creaming waves press on Impatient; or, as trees that bow their tops One way, when Alpine hollows bring one way The blast whereat they quiver in the vale,So millions pressed to swell the general grief One way;—for once all men seemed one way drawn ; Or if, through evil hap and unforeseen,

Some stayed behind, their hearts, at least, were there The whole day through,-could think of nothing else, Hear nothing else, see nothing!

In his cell

The student saw the pageant; spied from far
The long-drawn pomp which reached from west to east,
Slow moving in the silence: casque and plume,
And banner waving sad; the marvellous state
Of heralds, soldiers, nobles, foreign powers,
With baton, or with pennon; princes, peers,
Judges, and dignities of church and state,
And warriors grown grey-headed; every form
Which greatness can assume or honour name,
Peaceful or warlike,-each and all were there;
Trooping in sable sorrow after him

Who slept serene upon his funeral car

In glorious rest! ... A child might understand

That 'twas no national sorrow, but a grief
Wide as the world. A child might understand
That all mankind were sorrowing for one!
That banded nations had conspired to pay
This homage to the chief who drew his sword
At the command of Duty; kept it bright
Through perilous days; and soon as Victory smiled,
Laid it, unsullied, in the lap of Peace.

XXXV. THE DIRGE OF NICHOLAS.

(W. S. DANIEL.)

1

Nicholas, Emperor of Russia, died on the 2d March, 1855, while the Crimean war was still raging.

Mr. William S. Daniel, the gifted author of "Lays of the (Crimean) War," and other fugitive poems, died recently in Edinburgh, where he was well known to literary men.

HARK, hark! to the telegraph bell!

There are news on the trembling wire,

That well their mighty message tell

In words of living fire;

A man lies dead

On a royal bed,

Who hath spilt man's blood like rain;

But his hour is come,

And his lips are dumb,

And he'll never shed blood again :
Coffin him, coffin him under the sod,
Nicholas Romanoff meets his GOD!

Speed the news by the swelling sail
And the hoof of the desert steed,
To darksome nooks where mourners wail,
And fields where brave men bleed ;-
Speed the news to the freeman's strand,
And the captive's rayless cell--
Breathe them o'er Siberian land,
Where the Despot's victims dwell,
Crushed in body, seared in heart,
By the fell tormentor's art,—
And whisper low

O'er the silent snow

"Exile! raise your drooping head, The Monarch of the Knout is dead!"

Send the welcome tidings forth,
O'er the pine woods of the North-
Finland! arm you for the fight
With the hated Muscovite-
Swedes! whom great Gustavus led,
Claim your own-the Tyrant's dead!

Bear the tale to Schamyl Bey,

The grey old Lion of the Hill, Where amid his wild array,

He defies the Russian still ;-
And the Lion's whelps will roar,
Like the waves that lash their shore:
Launch the news, like darts of fire,
To fair Warsaw's shattered wall,
And let every trembling spire
Thunder forth the tocsin-call;
Up, thou gallant Polish land!
Back the steed, and grasp the brand;
Let your lances shine like flame,—
On! in Kosciusko's name!
Lord and peasant, boy and man,
Forward, forward to the van!—
He who on your birthright trod,
Stands before wronged Poland's God!

Mourning woman! lift your voice
From the black abyss of woe;

Let your stricken soul rejoice

That the Spoiler's head is low-
Ye, who blistering tears have shed
For brothers, lovers, husbands dead-
Georgian, Turk, Circassian fair!
Dry the cheek and braid the hair,
In the festal song take part.
Send the chorus from the heart-
Polish lady, Polish lass,

Sing the dirge of Nicholas !

XXXVI.—THE FOUNDING OF THE BELL.

(Ο. ΜΑΟΚΑΤ.)

Charles Mackay, LL.D., is a native of Perth, but his boyhood was spent partly in
England and partly in Belgium. He was for some years editor of the Glasgow
Argus, and afterwards of the Illustrated London News. He was born in 1812.

HARK! how the furnace pants and roars;
Hark! how the molten metal pours,
As bursting from its iron doors
It glitters in the sun!

Now through the ready mould it flows,
Seething and hissing as it goes,

And filling every crevice up,
As the red vintage fills the cup:
Hurrah! the work is done!

Unswathe him now. Take off each stay
That binds him to his couch of clay,
And let him struggle into day;
Let chain and pulley run,

With yielding crank and steady rope,
Until he rise from rim to cope,
In rounded beauty, ribbed in strength,
Without a flaw in all his length:
Hurrah! the work is done!

The clapper on his giant side

Shall ring no peal for blushing bride,
For birth, or death, or new-year-tide,
Or festival begun!

A nation's joy alone shall be

The signal for his revelry ;

And for a nation's woes alone

His melancholy tongue shall moan:
Hurrah! the work is done!

Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,
His long, loud summons shall we hear,

YORK FREE

When statesmen to their country dear EW YORK

Their mortal race have run:

Muhlenberg Branch,

rculating Libr

When mighty monarchs yield their breath,
And patriots sleep the sleep of death,
Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,
And peal a requiem o'er their tomb:
Hurrah! the work is done!

Should foemen lift their haughty hand,
And dare invade us where we stand,
Fast by the altars of our land
We'll gather every one;

And he shall ring the loud alarm,
To call the multitudes to arm,
From distant field and forest brown,

And teeming alleys of the town:
Hurrah! the work is done!

And, as the solemn boom they hear,
Old men shall grasp the idle spear,
Laid by to rust for many a year,
And to the struggle run;

Young men shall leave their toils or books,
Or turn to swords their pruning-hooks;
And maids have sweetest smiles for those
Who battle with their country's foes:
Hurrah! the work is done!

And when the cannon's iron throat
Shall bear the news to dells remote,
And trumpet-blast resound the note,
That victory is won;

While down the wind the banner drops,
And bonfires blaze on mountain-tops,
His sides shall glow with fierce delight,
And ring glad peals from morn to night:
Hurrah! the work is done!

But of such themes forbear to tell.
May never War awake this bell
To sound the tocsin or the knell !

Hushed be the alarum gun!