OUR GOD IS GOOD.

BENJAMIN STOTT, BORN AT MANCHESTER, NOVEMBER 24, 1813, AND DIED THERE, JULY 26, 1850.

OUR God is good, His works are fair,
His gifts to man are rich and rare ;
His holy presence everywhere,

O'er land and sea,

Proclaims that all should equal share

Sweet liberty.

The air with sounds of Freedom rings,
Whene'er the lark his carol sings,
Whene'er the bee bestirs his wings;
From tiny bird

And joyful twittering insect things

That sound is heard.

'Tis first of Nature's wise decrees,
It floats upon the healthful breeze,
It speaketh in the rustling trees,

Without control

It rolls o'er waves of mighty seas,
From Pole to Pole.

Wherever mortal man hath been,
In deserts wild, or prairies green,
In storm, or solitude serene,

On hills, or plains,

He hath in Nature's kingdom seen

That freedom reigns.

Dear liberty! foul slavery's ban,
Destroy thee, tyrants never can,
For when the flight of time began,
God made all free;

He breathed into the soul of man,

Pure love for thee.

That love inspired great Bruce and Tell,
Before them despots fled and fell;
That love hath often rung the knell

Of coward knaves,

Whose powerful villanies compel

Men to be slaves.

And yet that love shall millions bless,
Its power will all their wrongs redress,
Base tyranny shall soon confess

The rights of all;

Then woe to him that dare oppress

With chains and thrall.

For God is good, His works are fair,
His gifts to man are rich and rare,
His holy presence everywhere

O'er land and sea,

Proclaims that all should equal share

Sweet liberty.

KENILWORTH.

WILLIAM HARPER. FROM THE GENIUS, AND OTHER POEMS," 1840.

PROUD Kenilworth a ruin stands,

That is of old renown;

'Mid smiling streams, and pleasant lands,

He bows his glory down.

My spirit dreams of other days,

While yet I gaze on thee;

Of mailed knights, and minstrel lays,

And queenly revelrie!

And then, methinks, how sad the things

Which such mutation know!

The pomps of nobles, and of kings,

Are but a passing show.

And where are they who in thy halls

Have suit and service known?

Who piled thy ivy-tangled walls,
Unshaped, and overthrown?

All silent now! in mist and gloom,
The shadows of the past!

Their mansion is the barren tomb,
Their triumphs could not last.

Be mine a portion better far
Than aught of earth can be ;

Whose glory is a falling star,
Like, Kenilworth, to thee!

OLD FROST.

JOHN SCHOLES.

'Tis such a night, when herdsmen first begin

The winter's task, to house and fodder up

Their cattle. When white frost hangs thick

Upon the brookside hedge, and meads, close cropp'd,
Rustle beneath the tread; and to the gate

The kine with argent frost come, silver'd o'er,
Puffing their cloudy breath in the moon's face.
With wicker maun the merry maiden trips
To gather linen from the orchard-pale :
Anon she spreads it steaming at the hearth;
Anon heaps logs upon the blazing pile;
Her pretty rounded arm shows dappled o'er,
And on her modest cheek the frolic kiss
Of snowy-headed winter sits in blushes.

All night Old Frost works wond'rous alchemy--
And every noteless bush and mossy stone

Of wrought-enchased silver shows at morn.

Round glittering sloes, that peep'd thro' leafy shades, Like elfin eyes in the dusk twilight hour,

A misty bloom, as on Damascus blade,

At dawn enwraps. The brook its wonted song
Sings in an alter'd key. The richly-jewell'd fern
And pendant branches, hung with crystal bells,
Their icy cymbals clash in harmony :-
A low, clear, ringing music, often heard
In quiet places on so sweet a night.
From perilous rocks the venerable goat,
With hoary-hermit beard, looks sagely down
And ruminates on change.

BABYLON.

WILLIAM ROWLINSON; DROWNED IN THE THAMES, WHILST

BATHING, JUNE 22, 1829; BURIED IN BISHAM

CHURCHYARD, BUCKINGHAMSHIRE.

WHERE great Euphrates' giant flood

Roll'd joyously along,

Chaldean's noblest city stood,

In grandeur seeming strong,