Ho! thou vast and wealthy nation,

Wing thy fleets to every place, Fertilising all Creation

With the Anglo-Saxon race!

England's frank and sturdy bearing,
Scotland's judgment, true and tried,
Erin's headlong headstrong daring,

And the Welshman's honest pride,-
Send these forth, and tame the savage,
Sow his realms with British homes,
Where till now wild monsters ravage,
Or the wilder Bushman roams.

Let, as erst in Magna Græcia,

Nobles, sages, join the ranks;

And for vacant Austral-Asia

Leave for good these swarming banks; Not as exiled,-but with honour,

Told in tale, and sung in song;

With the Queen,-GOD's blessing on her!-Speeding this good work along.

Then the wilderness shall blossom,
And the desert, as the rose;
While dear Earth's maternal bosom
With abundance overflows:

Then shall Britain gladly number

Crowds of children, now her dread,

THE NEW HOME.

That her onward march encumber

With the living and the dead!

Ay! for bitter is the contest
As a struggle, life for life,
Where the very meal thou wantest
Was for little ones and wife,—
Where they slowly pine and perish
That the father may be strong,
Some taskmaster's wealth to cherish,
By his labour, right or wrong!

Haste, then, all ye better natures,
Help in what must bless the World:
See, those cellar-crowded creatures

To Despair's own dungeon hurl'd ;—
Send-or lead them o'er the waters
To the genial shores, that give
Britain's sacred sons and daughters
Man's great privilege to Live!

There, instead of scanty wages,
Grinding rent and parish tax,—
In the wood, unheard for ages,
Rings the cheerful freeman's axe;
Whilst in yonder cozy clearing,
Home, sweet Home, rejoices life,
Full of thoughts and things endearing,

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There,-instead of festering alleys,

Noisome dirt, and gnawing dearth,—
Sunny hills and smiling valleys
Wait to yield the wealth of Earth!
All She asks is-human labour,
Healthy in the open air;

All she gives is-every neighbour
Wealthy, hale, and happy There!

THE CONQUERORS AT METZ. (A CHRISTIAN INCIDENT.)

A THRILLING touch of Nature
Amid the battle-brunt,

A gleam of angel-feature

On Moloch's horrid front,

A beauty and a glory

To gild the soldier's scar ;-
Hark to this simple story,
An episode of war.

Fair Metz, in all her vastness,
That citadel of strength,
The Brunhild maiden-fastness
Is overborne at length;
Is made her flag to lower,
Her gates to open wide
To victors in their power

And their panoply of pride.

THE CONQUERORS AT METZ. By stern starvation vanquish'd

The hosts of gallant France
With hearts and faces anguish'd
Surrendering advance,

And pile their weapons mutely,
As patriots who can feel
Within their souls acutely
The sharpness of the steel.

How then didst thou receive them,
O noble German foe?

What welcome didst thou give them

In all their want and woe?

Did hate exulting loudly

Shout as the conquered past?

Did spiteful glances proudly

Their scorn on Frenchmen cast?

No! silently, if gladly,

Their enemies they raise

Half thankfully, half sadly,

And giving GOD the praise,— Thus, the whole army meets them As brothers in distress,

And generously greets them

With looks of kindliness.

Each soldier gives his ration
To feast his fallen foe,

And saves him from starvation,

And soothes his bitter woe,

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And, all the host united

In that grand act of love,

Unwittingly delighted

The Host of Heaven above!

GREY HAIR.

LIGHT as flakes of falling snow

Drop the silent-footed hours; And the days, they come and go,

And the years we scarcely know

How their frosts, and fruits, and flowers,

Transient crops of weal and woe,
Change, and pass, and perish so!
While we muse upon To-day,
Lo! the dream has died away;
And there lives what was To-morrow,
With its present joy or sorrow,
Pains and pleasures, fear and hope,

A variable kaleidoscope:
So on, so on; till years have sped

By tens and twenties over head,
And those flakes that fell unfelt

Have grown to snows-that never melt!