Now through the ready mould it flows,
Seething and hissing as it goes,

And filling every crevice up

As the red vintage fills the cup :

Hurra! the work is done!

II.

Unswathe him now.

Take off each stay

That binds him to his couch of clay,

And let him struggle into day :

Let chain and pulley run,

With yielding crank and steady rope,
Until he rise from rim to cope,
In rounded beauty, ribb'd in strength,
Without a flaw in all his length:

Hurra! the work is done!

III.

The clapper on his giant side

Shall ring no peal for blushing bride,
For birth, or death, or new-year tide,
Or festival begun.

A nation's joy alone shall be
The signal for his revelry;

And for a nation's woes alone

His melancholy tongue shall moan:

Hurra! the work is done!

IV.

Borne on the gale, deep-toned and clear,
His long loud summons shall we hear,
When Statesmen to their country dear
Their mortal race have run:

When mighty monarchs yield their breath,
And patriots sleep the sleep of death,
Then shall he raise his voice of gloom,

And peal a requiem o'er their tomb:
Hurra! the work is done!

y.

Should foemen lift their haughty hand,
And dare invade us where we stand,

Fast by the altars of our land

We'll gather every one,

And he shall ring the loud alarm,
To call the multitudes to arm,

From distant field and forest brown,
And teeming alleys of the town:

Hurra! the work is done:

VI.

And as the solemn boom they hear,
Old men shall grasp the idle spear,
Laid by to rust for many a year,

And to the struggle run;

Young men shall leave their toils or books, Or turn to swords their pruning hooks; And maids have sweetest smiles for those Who battle with their country's foes: Hurra! the work is done!

VII.

And when the cannon's iron throat
Shall bear the news to dells remote,
And trumpet blast resound the note,
That victory is won;
When down the wind the banner drops,
And bonfires blaze on mountain tops,
His sides shall glow with fierce delight,
And ring glad peals from morn to night:
Hurra! the work is done!

VIIL

But of such scenes forbear to tell

May never war awake this bell

To sound the tocsin or the knell.

Hush'd be the alarum gun!

Sheath'd be the sword! and may his voice

But call the nations to rejoice

That War his tatter'd flag has furled,

And vanished from a wiser world:

Hurra! the work is done!

IX.

Still may he ring when struggles cease,
Still may he ring for joy's increase,

For progress in the arts of peace,

And friendly trophies won.

When rival nations join their hands,
When plenty crowns the happy lands,
When knowledge gives new blessings birth,
And freedom reigns o'er all the earth:
Hurra! the work is done!

THE BRAVE OLD OAK.

H. F. CHORLEY.

A SONG to the Oak, the brave old Oak,

Who hath ruled in the green wood long,

Here's health and renown to his broad green crown, And his fifty arms so strong.

There's fear in his frown, when the sun goes down, And the fire in the west fades out,

And he showeth his might on a wild midnight,
When the storms through his branches shout.
Then here's to the Oak, the brave old Oak,
Who stands in his pride alone,

And still flourish he a hale green tree,
When a hundred years are gone.

In the days of old when the spring with cold,
Had brightened his branches grey,
Through the grass at his feet, crept maidens sweet,
To gather the dew of May.

And on that day to the rebeck gay

They frolick'd with lovesome swains;

They are gone, they are dead, in the churchyard laid, But the tree it still remains.

Then here's, &c. '

He saw the rare times, when the Christmas chimes
Were merry sounds to hear,

When the squire's wide hall, and the cottage small
Were filled with good English cheer.

Now gold hath the sway we all obey,

And a ruthless king is he,

But he never shall send our ancient friend,

To be tossed on the stormy sea.

Then here's, &c.

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:
And he sang," Hurrah for my handiwork!"
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 plough'd the willing lands;

And 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!