TUBAL CAIN.

CHARLES MACKAY,

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might,

In the days when Earth was young;
By the fierce red light of his furnace bright,
The strokes of his hammer rung;
And he lifted high his brawny hand,
On the iron glowing clear,

Till the sparks rush'd out in scarlet showers,
As he fashion'd the sword and spear.

And he sang, "Hurrah for my handiwork!
Hurrah for the spear and sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well,
For he shall be King and Lord!”

To Tubal Cain came many a one,

As he wrought by his roaring fire,

And each one pray'd for a strong steel blade,
As the crown of his desire;

And he made them weapons sharp and strong,
Till they shouted loud for glee,

And gave him gifts of pearls and gold,
And spoils of the forest free.

And they sang, “Hurrah for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurrah for the smith! hurrah for the fire!
And hurrah for the metal true!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun;

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain
For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,
Made war upon their kind,

That the land was red with blood they shed,
In their lust for carnage blind.

And he said, "Alas! that ever I made,
Or that skill of mine should plan,
The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And for many a day old Tubal Cain

Sat brooding o'er his woe;

And his hand forebore to smite the ore,
And his furnace smoulder'd low;
But he rose at last with a cheerful face,
And a bright courageous eye,

And bared his strong right arm for work,
While the quick flames mounted high:
"Hurrah for my handiwork!"

And he sang,

And the red sparks lit the air

"Not alone for the blade, was the bright steel made;" And he fashion'd the first ploughshare.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And

And plough'd the willing lands;

sang, "Hurrah for Tubal Cain,

Our stanch good friend is he;

And for the ploughshare and the plough,
To him our praise shall be.

But while Oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,
We'll not forget the sword."

SONG FOR TWILIGHT.

BARRY CORNWALL.

HIDE me, O twilight Air!

Hide me from thought, from care,

From all things, foul or fair,

Until to-morrow!

To-night I strive no more;
No more my soul shall soar :
Come, Sleep, and shut the door
'Gainst Pain and Sorrow!

If I must see through dreams,
Be mine Elysian gleams,

Be mine by morning streams

To watch and wander!

So may my spirit cast
(Serpent-like) off the past,
And my free soul at last

Have leave to ponder !

And, should'st thou 'scape control,
Ponder on love, sweet Soul,
On joy, the end and goal
Of all endeavour!

But, if earth's pains will rise,
(As damps will seek the skies,)
Then, Night, seal thou mine eyes,
In sleep, for ever!

THE OLD ARM CHAIR.

ELIZA COOK.

I LOVE it, I love it! and who shall dare
To chide me for loving that old arm-chair?
I've treasured it long as a sainted prize,

I've bedew'd it with tears, I've embalm'd it with sighs. 'Tis bound by a thousand bands to my heart;

Not a tie will break, not a link will start;

Would

you know the spell ?-a mother sat there ! And a sacred thing is that old arm-chair.

In childhood's hour I linger'd near
The hallow'd seat with listening ear;
And gentle words that mother would give

To fit me to die, and teach me to live.

She told me that shame would never betide
With Truth for my creed, and God for my guide;
She taught me to lisp my earliest prayer,

As I knelt beside that old arm-chair.

and watch'd her many a day,

eye grew dim, and her locks were grey;

st worshipp'd her when she smiled,

from her Bible to bless her child.

on, but the last one sped

as shatter'd, my earth-star fled !
ow much the heart can bear,
saw her die in her old arm-chair.

'Tis past, tis past! but I gaze on it now, With quiv'ring breath and throbbing brow: 'Twas there she nursed me, 'twas there she died, And memory flows with lava tide.

Say it is folly, and deem me weak,

Whilst scalding drops start down my cheek;

But I love it, I love it, and cannot tear

My soul from a mother's old arm-chair.

OH! a dainty plant is the Ivy green,
That creepeth o'er ruins old!

Of right choice food are his meals I ween,
In his cell so lone and cold.

The walls must be crumbled, the stones decay'd, To pleasure his dainty whim;

And the mould'ring dust that years have made, Is a merry meal for him.

Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Fast he stealeth on, though he wears no wings
And a stanch old heart has he !

How closely he twineth, how tight he clings,
To his friend the huge oak tree !
And slily he traileth along the ground,
And his leaves he gently waves,

And he joyously twines and hugs around
The rich mould of dead men's graves.
Creeping where no life is seen,

A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

Whole ages have fled, and their works decay'd,
And nations scatter'd been;

But the stout old Ivy shall never fade
From its hale and hearty green.
The brave old plant in its lonely days,
Shall fatten upon the past:

For the stateliest building man can raise,
Is the Ivy's food at last.

Creeping where no life is seen,
A rare old plant is the Ivy green.

THE WILD CHERRY-TREE.

BARRY CORNWALL.

Он,-there never was yet so pretty a thing,
By racing river or bubbling spring,

Nothing that ever so merrily grew,

Up from the ground when the skies were blue,

Nothing so fresh-nothing so free

As thou-my wild, wild Cherry-tree!