Durham Amazons," all produced at different provincial theatres;
five volumes of songs and poems-viz., "Blossoms of Poesy"
(Longmans and Co.), "Spring Gatherings" (Whittaker and Co.),
"Staves for the Human Ladder" (Gilpin and Co.), "Peals from
the Belfry" (Hope and Co.), and "Daisies in the Grass" (Robt.
Hardwick)-the latter newly published, and the joint work of
Mrs. Banks and himself; and "All About Shakspeare” (H. Lea),
illustrated by Gilks. Many of Mr. Banks's songs have been set
to music, and become popular in that way. In the intervals of
literary labour, Mr. Banks has been a hard worker in the cause
of the people, and his name is still familiar throughout the North
of England (although now a denizen of the metropolis) as a
successful organizer of public movements, an eloquent lecturer,
and the founder of a number of educational societies, both in
connexion with the "Yorkshire Union of Mechanics' Institutes"
and beyond its jurisdiction.]

A VERY fair Christian is good Mrs. Brown,
And wise, too, as any in any wise town;
She worships her God without any display,
Not molesting her friend who lives over the way;
And, whatever occurs it is easy to see

That her words and her conduct do always agree.
For this little maxim she shrewdly commends—
"Good precept and practice should ever be friends!"

A very warm Christian is good Mrs. Green,
In her satins, and velvets, and rich armazine;
She is always at church when the service begins,
And prays quite aloud for the poor and their sins;
Then her speech is so fair, and her manner so bland,
They'd proselytize the most heathenish land;
And this one opinion she stoutly defends-
"That precept and practice should ever be friends!"

Mrs. Brown has a reticule, useful though small,
Which oft in the week she takes under her shawl,
Calling first on this person, and then on the other,
As if she were either a sister or mother;

And 't has oft been remarked, with good reason, no doubt,

That the reticule's lighter for having been out;

For this little maxim she shrewdly commends— "Good precept and practice should ever be friends !"

Mrs. Green, now and then, for an hour, sits in state With some more lady friends-rich, of course-to debate

How the poor shall be clothed, and what taught, and what rules

It were best to enforce in the Charity Schools;
All of which having over and over been turned,
And, nothing decided, the meeting's adjourned;
And this one opinion each lady defends-

"That precept and practice should ever be friends!"

In the street where resides our good friend Mrs. Brown Is a school, though not known to a tithe of the town, Which that lady supports from her own private purse; (And 'tis thought by her neighbours she might do much worse ;)

And if scholars, or parents, are ill or distressed,
The reticule's sure to be had in request;

For this little maxim she shrewdly commends-
"Good precept and practice should ever be friends!"

Mrs. Green has a sympathy deep and refined,
It is not to parish or country confined;
If a party of ladies propose a bazaar
To enlighten the natives of rude Zanzebar,
She is truly delighted to sanction their aim,
By giving wise counsel, and lending her name;
For this one opinion she stoutly defends-
"That precept and practice should ever be friends!"

Mrs. Brown is a stranger to parties and sects,
The good of all classes she loves and respects;
Thinking little enough of profession or creed,
If the heart and the hand go not with it indeed;
While her prayers, and her purse, and her reticule, too,
For all sorts of Christians a kindness will do;

Along those banks my boyhood strayed, And hearts were linked with mine; Ah, many were the pranks we played,— While youth yet seemed divine!

Then would we wander all the day
And dream the live-long night,
Our very dreams so full of play
We scarcely missed the light.

My brothers bathed in yonder pool,
For it was clear indeed,

Where now the moorhen holds her rule
And dabbles in the weed.

Then Harry clomb the topmost tree
And Willy swam the flood,
No fish in pond or brook went free,
No nest in all the wood.

What autumn nuttings up the glen!
What wild-flower hunts in May!
The very copse we rifted then

Is standing corn to-day.

Ah! now 'tis twice score years since both
Stood on that bridge, and I
Now turned from one to other, loth
To give the last good-bye.

Yet while we talked of distant days
And all that they should bear,
Strange shadows fell before my gaze
And hushed me unaware.

But when we parted, trusting God,
I bid the boys be brave:
Now one lies under battle sod
And one beneath the wave.

There stands the school-how oft I drew

My hand from off the latch,
Half-thinking of some task o'er-due,
Half of some coming match.

And then our dear old dame so wise
With glasses on the nose,

You'd think she had two pairs of eyes.
They watched us all so close.

Beneath yon yew she sleepeth well,
It was her chosen place;

And stranger lips must teach to spell
And sway the younger race.

Now some trim mistress fresh from school
Sits in th' old elbow-chair:

Though she be prompt with plan and rule, I grieve to see her there.

Sufficient for the simple heart,

That simple code of yore,-
But they who play the modern part
Must learn the modern lore.

And there's the Sexton, rare old man,
Thy dealings with the dead,
Though stretching half a century's span
Touch not thy heart or head.

And should thy grim task-master come
To call thee in at last,

Though quick to help thy neighbours home,
Thou wilt not answer fast.

But when God takes me, fain would I

Be laid in earth by thee,

And may no village upstart try
His prentice spade for me.

The vicar too 'bides with us yet,
So long has been his reign,
His every Sunday text is set
In order on my brain.

"Twas he that marked the cross of truth

Upon my infant brow;

And his the lips that taught my youth Its earliest offered vow.

My dying father blessed his name,
E'en with his passing breath,
Then surely I, his child, may claim
His guidance unto death.

It cannot be our time is long,
So many gone before,
And only we of all the throng
Stand waiting on the shore.

Oh golden past, I dare not ask
That aught should be withdrawn,
Though bitter seems the evening task
Of gazing back to dawn.

The present is not wholly vain,

Nor future wholly dark,

And though mine eyes are dim, I strain Still forward to the Ark.

Our time is short, God's rest is sure,
Though waiting seem so hard,
But if so be the soul endure,

It hath its own reward.

Then let the stream run by my door
As in the former years,

"Tis dearer for these thoughts of yore,
And these awakened tears.

(Copyright-contributed.)