The cord is severed, the lifeless clay
By "dungeon villains" is borne away;
Nine!-'t was the last concluding stroke!
And then my Lord Tomnoddy awoke!
And Tregooze and Sir Carnaby Jenks arose,
And Captain M'Fuze, with the black on his nose;
And they stared at each other, as much as to say,
"Hollo! Hollo!

Here's a rum go!

Why, captain!-my lord!-Here's the mischief to pay!
The fellow's been cut down and taken away!
What's to be done?

We've missed all the fun!

Why, they'll laugh at, and quiz us all over the town,
We are all of us done so uncommonly brown!"

What was to be done?—'t was perfectly plain
That they could not well hang the man over again ;—
What was to be done?-The man was dead!—
Nought could be done,-nought could be said;
So-my Lord Tomnoddy went home to bed!

Ex. CXLIX.-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,

THOMAS HOOD

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-workTill 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!

"Oh! men, with sisters dear!

Oh! 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.

"But why do I talk of death,
That phantom of grisly bone,
I hardly fear his terrible shape,
It seems so like my own-
It seems so like my own,
Because of the fasts I keep,

Oh God! that bread should be so dear,
And flesh and blood so cheap!

"Work-work-work!

My labor 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!

"Work-work-work!

From weary chime to chime!
Work-work-work,
As prisoners work for crime!
Band, and gusset, and seam,
Seam, and gusset, and band,

Till the heart is sick, and the brain benumbed,
As well as the weary hand.

"Work-work-work!

In the dull December light,

And work-work-work,

When the weather is warm and bright--
While underneath the eaves

The brooding swallows cling,
As if to show me their sunny backs,
And twit me with the Spring.

"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 sweet 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 !---
this "Song of the Shirt."

She sung

Ex. CL-THE AVENGING CHILDE.

LOCKHART.

HURRA! hurra! avoid the way of the Avenging Childe;
His horse is swift as sands that drift,-an Arab of the wild;

His gown is twisted round his arm,

-a ghastly cheek he wears; And in his hand, for deadly harm, a hunting-knife he bears. Avoid that knife in battle-strife:-that weapon short and thin,

The dragon's gore hath bathed it o'er, seven times 't was steeped therein;

Seven times the smith hath proved its pith,-its cuts a coulter through;

In France the blade was fashioned,-from Spain the shaft it drew.

He sharpens it, as he doth ride, upon his saddle-bow,—
He sharpens it on either side, he makes the steel to glow:
He rides to find Don Quadros, that false and faitour knight;
His glance of ire is hot as fire, although his cheek be white.
He found him standing by the king within the judgment-
hall;

He rushed within the baron's ring, he stood before them

all:

Seven times he gazed and pondered, if he the deed should

do;

Eight times distraught he looked and thought, then out his dagger flew.

He stabbed therewith at Quadros :-the king did step be

tween;

It pierced his royal garment of purple wove with green:
He fell beneath the canopy, upon the tiles he lay.

"Thou traitor keen, what dost thou mean?-thy king why wouldst thou slay ?"

"Now, pardon, pardon," cried the Childe, "I stabbed not, king, at thee,

But him, that caitiff, blood-defiled, who stood beside thy knee;

Eight brothers were we,—in the land might none more loving

be,

They all are slain by Quadros' hand,-they all are dead but

me.

"Good king, I fain would wash the stain,-for vengeance is

my cry,

This murderer with sword and spear to battle I defy!"

But all took part with Quadros, except one lovely May,Except the king's fair daughter, none word for him would

say.

She took their hands, she led them forth into the court below;

She bade the ring be guarded,—she bade the trumpet blow; From lofty place for that stern race the signal she did throw:

"With truth and right the Lord will fight,-together let them go!"

The one is up, the other down: the hunter's knife is bare;
It cuts the lace beneath his face,—it cuts through beard and

hair;

Right soon that knife hath quenched his life, the head is sundered sheer,

Then gladsome smiled the Avenging Childe, and fixed it on his spear.

But when the king beholds him bring that token of his truth,

Nor scorn nor wrath his bosom hath: "Kneel down, thou

noble youth,

Kneel down, kneel down, and kiss my crown,—I am no more thy foe,

My daughter now may pay the vow she plighted long ago!"

Ex. CLI-APPEAL TO THE PEOPLE OF FRANCE.

LAMARTINE.

THE first accusation against me is, that I have been ardent in ambition, weak in the exercise of power during the interregnum and dictatorship! I answer: The revolution of February took me by surprise, as it did every body. The republican system, the government of pure reason, was to me the ideal, more or less distant, of the right, the sovereignty of the people. It never was a conspiracy.

We marched to the Hotel de Ville, at the head of a column of the people. We were borne along under a canopy of sabers, pikes, and bayonets, into the halls stained with blood, and encumbered with the dead and the wounded, to a small table, at which the government was organized. At this