May all that is noble flock thither;
May all that is good there increase;
And the strength of our sov'reignty wither
Ere the life of our liberty cease!
May England, the first of the nations,
The truth's mighty treasure maintain,
Handing down to her last generations
Her freedom untouched by a stain !

OIL ON THE TROUBLED WATERS.

(Written on the eve of the General Election of 1868.)

HE wind may sway the forest,

THE

Or over the mountain sweep,

Driving the clouds before it,

Lashing the mighty deep :
But it's under the hill-side shelter
That the warmest sunbeams glow,
And it's down in the peaceful valley
That the fairest flowers blow.

Deeply may run the river,

And brightly its waters gleam ;
And the waves may leap upon it,
While swiftly flows its stream:
But it's under the hanging willows,
With scarce a ripple nigh,
Far from the struggling current,
That the lovely lilies lie.

So 'tis not in the times of tumult
That the wisest works are wrought,

Nor in the troubled spirit

That we find the purest thought:
But 'tis from our humbler duties

That the brightest joys are won,

And in our quiet moments

That the greatest good is done.

Not that we should not differ,
When duty calls us to,

Or strive the wrong to vanquish,
Or strive the right to do:
But that we should be trying
To compass peaceful ends,
And tighten those bonds together
That make us firmer friends.

And as o'er the face of heaven
Conflicting winds may blow,
And, over the meadows scattered,
Different plants may grow ;
Yet not one of all the number

But a common source has found,
And there's one blue sky above us,
And one green earth around :-

So, although in life's wide struggle
In ranks opposed we stand,
And though diverse companions
Are found on either hand;

Yet will we all endeavour

As friends to meet and part,

And, however our thoughts may differ, We'll yet be one in heart.

IN THE STREETS OF LONDON.

HERE'S a voice that I hear crying,

TH

Crying in the street,

High amid the roar of traffic

And the rush of feet.

There's a voice that I hear crying,

Crying in the street,

When above the sleeping city
Night and morning meet.

'Tis a voice of solemn warning,
Mighty, clear, and loud,
Rising far above the tumult
Of the busy crowd.

'Tis a voice of supplication
And of deep distress,

That no tongue can ever utter
And no words express.

'Tis a voice by lips unspoken,

And by ears unheard;

But no less distinct the meaning

Of each burning word.

'Tis the voice of vice's victims

And privation's slaves,

And it cries aloud for pity,

And for help it craves.

From the pale and care-worn features,
Want's accustomed seat;

From the torn and tattered garments,
And the weary feet ;

From the lines of youth and beauty
In some lovely face,

Where pure heart and better motive
Still have left their trace;

From the helpless, hopeless outcast,
Sounds the bitter cry,

While the world to toil or pleasure

Passes careless by.

Oh! thou great and mighty city,

Great in wealth and pow'r ! Hearest thou that cry of anguish,

Calling every hour?

Naught are all thy wealth and greatness,

Naught but empty show,

If that voice of want and sorrow

Long unheeded go.

In thine ears 'tis ever calling

From its depths of pain ;

And God grant its cry of anguish
May not sound in vain!