IF I WERE A VOICE.

Charles Markay.

IF I were a voice, a persuasive voice,

That could travel the wide world through,
I would fly on the beams of the morning light,
And speak to men with a gentle might,

And tell them to be true.
I'd fly, I'd fly, over land and sea,
Wherever a human heart might be,
Telling a tale or singing a song,

In praise of the right-in blame of the wrong.

If I were a voice, a consoling voice,
I'd fly on the wings of the air,

The homes of sorrow and guilt I'd seek,
And calm and truthful words I'd speak
To save them from despair.

I'd fly, I'd fly o'er the crowded town,
And deep, like the happy sunlight, down
Into the hearts of suffering men,
And teach them to rejoice again.

If I were a voice, a convincing voice,
I'd travel with the wind,

And wherever I saw the nations torn
By warfare, jealousy, or scorn,
Or hatred of their kind,

I'd fly, I'd fly on the thunder crash,
And into their blinded bosoms flash;

And all their evil thoughts subdued,
I'd teach them Christian brotherhood.

If I were a voice, a pervading voice,
I'd seek the kings of earth;

I'd find them alone on their beds at night, And whisper words that should guide them right

Lessons of priceless worth.

I'd fly more swift than the swiftest bird,
And tell them things they never heard-
Truths which the ages for aye repeat,
Unknown to the statesmen at their feet.

If I were a voice, an immortal voice,
I'd speak to the people's ear;
And whenever they shouted Liberty!'
Without deserving to be free,

I'd make their error clear.
I'd fly, I'd fly on the wings of day,
Rebuking wrong on my world-wide way,
And making all the earth rejoice-
If I were a voice, an immortal voice.

DISCONTENT.
Caleridge.

On! we are querulous creatures, little less
Than all things can suffice to make us happy;
And little more than nothing, is enough
To discontent us.

AN ITALIAN PEASANT GIRL

DICTATING A LOVE LETTER TO ONE OF THE ANCIENT SCRIBES WHO PLY THEIR PROFESSION AT ROME.

Craly.

'COME, thou old, unloving scribe!
Thou shalt have a noble bribe-
Choose it, medal, coin, or gem,
Topaz ring or coral stem;

Take thy pen, and tell my love,
How to earth and heaven above,
How to every sainted maid

I have watched, and wept, and prayed
O'er him with their wings to stoop
Where he steers his bold chaloupe.
O'er him in the sullen night,
When the storm is in his might;
O'er him in the peaceful day
When the lance and sabre play,
And the soldier's hour is knoll'd
Stretched upon the sanguine mould;
Now on surge, or now on steed,
Still to spare, still to speed.

'Listen, now! 'tis vain, 'tis vain!
What can read the burning brain?
What can tell the thousand'th part
Of the agony of heart?

Secrets that the spirit keeps-
Thoughts on which it wakes and weeps,
To the mortal ear unknown,

Kept for night and heaven alone,

'Old man, tell him of the tale
Written on my cheek so pale;
Wild and often has the tear
Washed the rose that once was here;
Tell him of my heavy sigh,
Deep as from the lips that die ;
Of my eye's decaying beam-
Life departing like a dream;
Tell him of my weary day,
Bid him, oh, do all but stay;
If he would not see my tomb-
Bid him come, and swiftly come.'

BIRDS.

Eliza Cook.

BIRDS-birds! ye are beautiful things, With your earth-treading feet, and your cloudcleaving wings;

Where shall man wander, and where shall he dwell,

Beautiful birds, that ye come not as well?

Ye have nests on the mountain all rugged and stark,

Ye have nests in the forest all tangled and dark: Ye build and ye brood 'neath the cottager's

eaves,

And ye sleep on the sod 'mid the bonnie green leaves;

Ye hide in the heather, ye lurk in the brake, Ye dive in the sweet flags, that shadow the lake;

Ye skim where the stream parts the orcharddecked land,

Ye dance where the foam sweeps the desolate strand.

Beautiful birds! ye come thickly around, When the bud's on the branch, and the snow's on the ground;

Ye come, when the richest of roses flush out, And ye come when the yellow leaf eddies

about.

Beautiful birds! how the schoolboy remembers The warblers that chorused his holiday tune, The robin that chirped in the frosty Decembers, The blackbird that whistled through flowercrowned June;

That schoolboy remembers his holiday ramble, When he pulled every blossom of palm he could see;

When his finger was raised as he stopped in the bramble,

WithHark! there's the cuckoo; how close he must be !'