For fair reward, erect and free:

These are the men

The best of men—

These are the men we mean to be.

CHARLES MACKAY.

He that Loves a Rosy Cheek.

He that loves a rosy cheek,
Or a coral lip admires,

Or from star-like eyes doth seek
Fuel to maintain its fires

As old Time makes these decay,
So his flames must waste away.

But a smooth and stedfast mind,
Gentle thoughts and calm desires,
Hearts with equal love combin'd,
Kindle never-dying fires;
Where these are not, I despise
Lovely cheeks, or lips, or eyes.

THOMAS CAREW.

Sir Marmaduke.

SIR MARMADUKE was a hearty knight;
Good man! old man!

He's painted standing bolt upright,

With his hose roll'd over his knee;

His periwig's as white as chalk,
And on his fist he holds a hawk,
And he looks like the head
Of an ancient family.

His dining-room was long and wide;
Good man! old man!

His spaniels lay by the fireside ;-
And in other parts d'ye see
Cross bows, tobacco pipes, old hats,
A saddle, his wife, and a litter of cats!
And he look'd like the head

Of an ancient family.

He never turn'd the poor from the gate;
Good man! old man!

But was always ready to break the pate
Of his country's enemy.

What knight could do a better thing

Than serve the poor, and fight for his king?

And so may every head
Of an ancient family.

COLMAN THE YOUNGER.

The Barley-mowers' Song.

BARLEY-MOWERS, here we stand,
One, two, three, a steady band;
True of heart, and strong of limb,
Ready in our harvest trim;

All a-row with spirits blithe,

Now we whet the bended scythe,

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Side by side, now bending low, Down the swaths of barley go, Stroke by stroke, as true's the chime Of the bells, we keep in time; Then we whet the ringing scythe, Standing 'mong the barley lithe, Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, riak-a-tink-a-tink!

Barley-mowers must be true, Keeping still the end in view, One with all, and all with one, Working on till set of sun, Bending all with spirits blithe, Whetting all at once the scythe, Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Day and night, and night and day,
Time, the mower, will not stay;
We may hear him in our path
By the falling barley swath;
While we sing with voices blithe,

We may hear his ringing scythe,
Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

Time, the mower, cuts down all,
High and low, and great and small
Learn we then for him to grow
Ready, like the field we mow,
Like the bending barley lithe,

Ready for the whetted scythe,

Rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink, rink-a-tink-a-tink!

MARY HOWITT.

A Vision of the Crystal Palace.

(10th June, 1854.)

THERE are things more frail than visions, there are falser words than dreams

Bring, unchallenged, wildly mingling strangest with most common themes;

But I know not, as each Master laid his gift before the throne,

If I thought the thought of myriads, or my fancy stray'd alone.

Marching came a swarth procession, mustering from the banks of Nile,

Abject-eyed believers, marshall'd by stern priests with eyes of guile.

And with mystic types and symbols were their garments studded o'er,

And the awful veil of Isis was the banner that they bore.

Following trod a prouder army, striding on with martial tread,

From a City, lost for ages, that hath yielded up her dead.

And a grim and giant Monster stalking fiercely in

the van,

'Twas a winged Beast-more dreadful that it wore the face of man.

Next a graceful throng went by me, from a classic region fair,

Chisell'd features, flowing garments, laurel wreaths in golden hair;

And a God and Goddess led them, glorious types of War and Peace,

Neptune and Minerva ever watching o'er their well loved Greece.

From their seven-hill'd home eternal, then the haughty Swordsmen came,

Lictor's fasces, gory axe-head, and the she-wolf's glance of flame,

And four ever famous Letters borne on high in that array,

Told a world that Rome was present-proudly bade the world obey.

Whose luxurious pomp succeeds them, who in smiling throng advance,

Glistening in that flowery raiment, tripping as to feast and dance?

So they glisten'd, so they revell'd, so was struck the sparkling lyre,

On the day Pompeii perish'd, shrieking in yon mountain's fire.

Some come mourning, come as those whose brightest day hath shone and fled,

Are they from Byzantium's rampart, where a heroking lies dead

From the noblest fane that glows beneath an oriental sky

Raised to Christian Wisdom-bearing now the symbol of a Lie.