E'en now the press asserts its glorious sway,
And heralds forth a brighter, happier day.
The speed of steam, and that electric fire
Which speaks with instant voice along the wire,
Were vain, if not yet destined to extend
Thy peaceful reign o'er earth from end to end.
Cease, then, all selfish fears and slavish ties,
And in fraternal love bid every nation rise! *
*In a newspaper controversy I held some time ago with the Rev. Brewin Grant, on the subject of national education, I showed that there were nearly 40,000 children in Birmingham alone, left totally unprovided for by the voluntary system, which he advocated. Nevertheless it must be admitted that much good has resulted even from the limited and defective machinery of our present educational system. Those who can recollect (as I do) when almost every day our thoroughfares were blocked up by a savage crowd collected to witness a pugilistic encounter, and every Sunday morning the neighbourhood of Vaughton's Hole was infested by a congregation of ruffians assembled to fight their bulldogs, will allow that a better state of things has come to pass, and that we may with confidence look forward to still brighter days.
HARK! how the bells, with merry peal, proclaim Through night's dull reign another year to fame! The new half-century, with a birth sublime, Bursts from the womb of ever-flowing time, Whose silent footfalls have trod out our youth, And bade us leave fair poesy for truth—
To look with fond regret upon the past,
Which mingles with our strain-the proudest, and the last!
A strain that may embalm its author's name
With other lowly candidates for fame,
Who yet, though long unknown, the envied wreath may claim.
It is the year when that stupendous pile,
Whose fame already dawns upon our isle,
Will rise before the world, and shed a glory,
Unheard of e'en in ancient song or story,
*This was originally written on the morning of the 1st of January, 1851.
On England's greatness-which its founder* knew, When in his mind the vast conception grew.
All nations are invited to compete,
And in its crystal walls in peace to meet;
While every town, with emulative zeal,
Will join the friendly race, for England's weal;
And, not the least, the laurels to contest,
Our local industry shall stand confest;
Whose skill, and power, and greatness, there unfurl'd,
Shall rise with dazzling might before the world.
But let us not-when that glad hour shall come,
And we shall wander through the glorious dome-
Forget the hands that, with such mark'd success,
Framed all the wondrous throng of things to bless
The wants of man refined, and bid his heart
Expand with joy within that maze of art;
For there will be a dark side to the show-
A shade that follows happiness below.
To the deep-thoughted, every gem of skill
Which sparkles there, some purpose to fulfil,
Will speak of anxious and laborious toil,
Of heated shops, and drudgery, and moil,
The world may never know—thus lost in joy,
To see art triumph in each glittering toy,
And vast machine, whose wonder-working power
Rivals the deeds of fabled Jove of
But will they picture to the gaze of pride,
The ceaseless care t' ingenious art allied?
The weary strife-the slavish fret and wear-
Which Mercury bids the sons of genius share;
The battle waged with poverty unknown,
Where still is heard the half-extinguished groan;
These, these, the symptoms of a feverish race,
Will in that gorgeous temple find no place.
When will the people, not content with art,
Display those flowers that blossom in the heart!
And in one glorious exhibition prove
The fruits of peace, the genial works of love?
Ah! then we shall approach the golden age,
Drawn faintly by the hand of prophet sage,
And gladly imaged on the poet's page:
Then will a Christian world, by faith imbued,
As heaven's sweet reflex be for ever viewed;
And men, who now each other's aims oppose,
Shall live in harmony-as the lily grows
And looks more beauteous far beside the rose.
Then shall the town, with all its springs of woe,
Rejoicing, bid the streams of gladness flow;
And every village, unannoyed by fear,
Shall ope once more its heart of hospitable cheer.*
Hail to thy triumphs, Peace!-more glorious far Than all the red iniquities of war;
* The painful difference in the habits and dispositions of our country people, compared with what they once were, will be apparent to any one at all accustomed to mix with them. There is now more suspicion, and less of hearty welcome, than in the towns,
Thine heroes now can meet, a goodly band,
And spread the olive-branch through every land:
The ruthless thirst for empire and for blood,
Which placed the warrior with the great and good,
Which deified the chief of bloodiest deed,
"From Macedonia's madman to the Swede,'
No longer reigns: and on thine altars pure
Are offered gifts whose incense shall endure
To glad thy future messengers, and yield
Far richer fruits than the ensanguined field.
But to the town, once more, my muse, return-
Let not thy pride the humbler subject spurn:
See! o'er the dwelling-tops the dawning light
Comes slowly on-and from his sleep of night
Wakes up th' unwilling artisan, again
T' renew his life of drudgery and pain.
And hark! the sound of little moving feet
Is heard e'en now along the silent street:
Children who wake to slavery each day,
And cheerful glide along their noiseless way;
The world ne'er knows them, though its work they
And the same round at early dawn pursue;
Labour is life to them, and soon begin
The day's quick bustle, and its constant din.
And now the factory girl is seen to hie,
With hurried step, her dextrous hand to ply
* I need hardly say that the personages here alluded to are Alexander the Great-and that royal fool and brainless enthusiast, Charles XII.
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