"And I will give him house and land, And shape his rank to favor thine, And then, together ye shall stand Before the sacred shrine."

The lady raised her azure eyes,

Like violets, gleaming with the dew Of glistening tears, and said, with sighs, "I yield my fate to you."

"Then bring the page, for I would see The lover, who hath won so well Despite her haught and high degree, The Lady Isabelle !"

The merry-hearted maid is gone;

The noble knight in sorrow stands;
For well he loves the dove-like one
He yields to other hands.

But little time he had for woe-
The sound of gentle footsteps fell
Upon his ears, and smiling, lo!

The page and Isabelle!

And now he stands in mute amaze,
And now he drops his wondering eyes
As though afraid again to gaze

On what before him lies.

Up spake the page, "it is no dream;
Brother, I am a thing of earth;
And, Lady, not the churl I seem,
But one of lofty birth."

Then quoth the Prince in merry glee, "Sure Fortune never smiled so well

On maiden as she has on thee,

Sweet sister Isabelle !"

Philadelphia, August, 1843.

SONNET FROM PETRARCH.

"GLI OCCHI DI CH'IO PARLAI SI CALDAMENTE.”
BY MARY G. WELLS.

The lovely eyes that once I praised with pride,
The arms, the hands, the fairy feet, the face
Whose beauty drew me from myself, aside,

A seperate one from others of my race;
The wavy curls of pure and shining gold,

The lightning of the sweet and seraph smile Which made this heart a Paradise of old,

Are senseless dust; and yet I live the while; Yes! I still live, from which I grieve, and scorn To stay without the light I loved so long In prosperous days, or when my bark was torn ; My amorous strains I can no more prolong; The fount whence flowed my genius dry appears; My harp is turned to wailing and to tears. Philadelphia, December, 1844.

BY WM. OLAND BOURNE. MEMBER OF THE AMERICAN INSTITUTE, Corresponding Member of the National Institute for the promotion of Science, Washington, D. C.; Cor. Mem. Natural History Society of Montreal, Montreal, Canada East; of the Literary and Historical Society of Quebec, C. E., &c., &c.

"The practice of employing children only six and seven years of age to work in mines is almost universal, and there are no short hours for them. The children go down with the men usually at four o'clock in the morning, and remain in the pit between eleven and twelve hours." "I could not conceive of circumstances more prejudicial to animal existence than shutting up a little child throughout the day in subterraneous confinement at the very period when light and air are as necessary to its growth as to a young and tender plant." "The use of a child of six years of age is to open and shut one of the doors or traps in the galleries which are used to prevent the ingress or egress of inflammable air. The child is trained to sit in a dark gallery, and is literally in the dark during the whole of its confinement. It is impossible to imagine a more monotonous and dismal occupation for a child; yet I was told the child was not unhappy, although they did fret a good deal at first.' The truth is, that by blunting the sensibilities and deadening the faculties, the mind may be rendered callous to a lot which would otherwise be too bitter for human endurance."-" Notes and Observations," &c., by W. E. Hickson, Esq.

"I found assembled around a fire a group of men, boys, and girls, some of whom were of the age of puberty, the girls as well as the boys stark naked down to the waist, their hair bound up with a tight cap, and trousers supported by the hips. Their sex was recognisable only by their breasts, and some little difficulty occasionally arose in pointing out to me which were girls and which were boys. In the Flocton and Thornhill pits it is even more indecent; at least three-fourths of the men for whom they hurry are entirely unclothed, or with a flannel waistcoat only."—J. C. Symons, Esq., Report, (iii, et seq.: App.pt. i, pp. 181-2.

"When the nature of this horrible labor is taken into consideration, its extreme severity, its regular duration of twelve to fourteen hours daily, the unwholesome atmosphere of a coal mine, and the tender age and sex of the workers, a picture is presented of deadly physical oppression and systematic slavery, of which I conscientiously believe no one unacquainted with the facts, would credit the existence in the British dominions."-S. S. Scriven, Evidence, 48, p. 383.

"The children are called up at all hours of the night when the lace machines are at work; they are generally at work twenty hours per day; when they give over at eight o'clock on Saturday night, they lose of course four hours that day, then that is made up by their being worked the whole of the night on the Friday night."-Evidence before the Select Committee on the Mills and Factories. Testimony of Mr. Bury, Question 3321-23.

"Mrs. Houghton, Walker Street, New Trenton, is a lace drawer and has four children-Harriet, eight years; Anne, six; Mary, four, and Eliza, two years old; of these, the three older are lace-drawers. Harriet was not quite three when she began to work, Anne was about the same, and Mary was not quite two years old."—W. Grainger's Report; quoted by Charlotte Elizabeth.

Eliza Baff, aged fifteen :-"Never heard of Jesus Christ;

VOL. X-26

There is an island in the sea
Where loveliest things the eye allure,
And like to Dreamland seems to be,
Where joy inhales the ether pure;
The flowing stream or gentle rill

Glides smooth or murmurs on its way, Whose peaceful bosom fair and still Receives the light of every ray.

There beauty in her rich attire
'Mid sparkling gems awakes her tone,
Or sweeps with gentle touch the lyre
To make Euterpe's gift her own,
And scenes of pleasure cast around
The dulcet strains of rapt'rous joy;
Where not one sorrow can be found

The sweet illusion to destroy:
The flashing eye delights to beam

In answer to a thousand smiles,
And sweetest oft becomes the dream
That woos the spirit with its wiles,
While Art expends her richest power
To grace
the scene with lavish skill,
And 'mid the witchery of the hour

The cup of flowing nectar fill.

There Science takes her lofty flight,

And catches truth from earth and heaven, And pours around her peerless light

Which seems exhaustless to be given; There Truth unveils her richest springs Whose sparkling waters glide along, Where Fancy tips her airy wings

And soars aloft on pinions strong; A thousand temples greet the eye With lofty dome or glittering spire, And seem to touch the azure sky

To bring to earth celestial fire, And on their altars kindle there

The sweetest incense man can bring, A type of praise and holy prayer

And heartfelt tributes that they bring; There Faith reveals her radiant form Baptised in glory in the sky,

And sent to earth amid the storm

Which Error ever welcomes nigh; There touched with Heaven's resistless power She warbles forth angelic strains, And sheds a splendor on the hour

When man her sweetest gift obtains; There Love enkindled from on high Pours forth her harmony of heaven, And hymns perpetual melody

From Spirit-tongues to mortals given; And Faith, and Love, and holy Truth Look up with eyes of pure Desire, And joying in perennial youth,

String Hope's own silvery, chosen lyre.

But hark! I hear a shriek of pain!

Whence comes the sound? and can it be This happy island in the Sea Sends forth this echo to its strain?

Aye! turn thy feet from glittering halls, To see where sorrow ever fallsWhere one long, deep, unbroken wail, Which sends its piercing to the gale, Reveals the vast, remorseless wrong That withers both the weak and strong.

Did ye not see an abject thing

That shuddered as ye passed it by, And scarcely seemed to life to cling, Scarce spoke its misery with a sigh? Did ye not see the hollow eye That spoke through tears of bitter pain A mute appeal, addressed in vain

For aid and pity ere he die?

There is an island in the Sea

Whose glory fills the world with song, Whose most commanding pageantry Is gained by deep and speechless wrong; And while the nation's heart is stirred With swelling songs, there may be heard A mournful, bitter undertone Of millions in a fearful moan, Which bears along the swelling sigh And long-drawn curse of agony!

Whence is its greatness? Ask the grave,
And let its slaughtered millions speak,
Or plunge beneath the rolling wave
And listen to the gurgling shriek;
Go, get the skeletons and spread
Upon the field the countless dead,
Then rear them in a towering pile
And sing of greatness all the while
Ye build the crumbling pyramid,

In which entombed their glories lie; Give Truth its tongue to speak amid This scene of fearful irony!

Whence is its greatness? Ask the child That drags along its tearful way— And is in being's dawn defiled

With sin's companionship each day; "Greatness! What is it? I don't know! The great lord owns the pits belowThe children work the livelong day And ne'er behold the sunny rayThe great sun shines, but not on meThe great God speaks, but not to meThe bright stars shine, but not for me-The happy spring does not cheer meThe great lord only is so grand, He drives his coach about the land: There's a great book, I've heard 'em say, That good folk read in every day, And tells a story about one

They calls the Saviour's Lord's own son*--
He died upon the cross to save,
Our Saviour from the great, deep grave ;†
But learnt folk never tells to me
What great things in the world there be;
But I have heard there's one great place
Where we shall see him face to face,
And the great God lives there to count
How many steps the children mount
When we go 'hurrying' all the day,
And drag our 'trams' along the way.
But will He ever come to see
In the dark coal-pits where we be,
How many hours we toil and weep,
And how the great lord breaks our sleep?
He is our Father' just as well

As the great lords' of which they tell;
And don't He look all down the pit
When the poor children work in it?
Or count how many tears we cry
When aching on our straw we lie-
And don't they say we shall be blest
And we shall have a good, long rest,
Up in His bosom by-and-by?"

Oh! could ye witness under ground

That pale, dejected, withered thing, And hear that mockery of a sound

Whene'er it tries to laugh or sing, And feel the spirit-blight that falls Like the dank mildew on its walls, And catch the breath that faints away From shattered tenements of clay, And feel the fevered pulse beat high The bursting heart's mute symphony,-Methinks that greatness would appear A mock, a dream, a burning lie, A strong deception of the ear, Brand of a nation's infamy. See ye that hovel standing by, With broken thatch and hingeless door? Dilapidation e'er comes nigh

The cheerless cabin of the poor! Go, look within where squalor reigns; No tones of love to sooth their pains, No little spot of cultured ground

Is smiling 'neath the blooming flowers,-
They spring not there to shed around
A sweet perfume on childhood's hours;
No prattle speaks the infant's tone

Of life's young joy within the soul,
In golden sands of pleasure thrown
Where spirit-streams first rise to roll,
And give the deathless being there
Its first fruition bright and fair.

*John Wood, nearly eighteen-"Never heard of St. John the Baptist; never heard of King Herod; has heard of Jesus Christ, the Saviour's Lord's Son."

+William Southern, aged seventeen-"Knows who Jesus Christ was, he died on the cross to shed his blood to save our Saviour. Never heard of St. Peter or St. Paul."

Walter Brindly, aged seventeen-"Has heard of the Apostles; does not know if St. Peter was one, or if St. John was one, unless it was St. John Wesley; does not know any thing about Job; never heard of Samson; knows about Jack Sheppard."

Samuel R. Horton, near twelve-" Cannot read, only in the six penny book. Is not afraid of any man or boy either. Thinks he is of the devil, but not particularly."

The

poor

men's children have no home,
No spot endeared by sacred ties,
They toil, but plenty does not come,
They weep, but none attend their cries;
They ne'er inherit wealth or power,
They win from fortune's hand no dower,
But life is all unwelcomed still
And binds them here against their will.

Nor can the poor men's children break

The galling bond which binds them down.
Should poor men's children think to take

One useless jewel from the crown?
Their sires were poor, and poor alway-
Their sires wore rags, and so shall they-
Their sires were born in hovels here-
Their sires oft wiped the falling tear-
Their lives were spent in toil and pain-
They sought for mercy but in vain-
They died and left their rags to bear
A witness to the children there-
They died and left their cup of tears
For these to drink in early years:
And shall these children not endure
The patrimony of the poor?

Go, Briton! to yon gloomy mine,

Where helpless infants toil and sigh!
No gladdening sunbeams on them shine,
Or kiss the tear-drop from their eye;
But there in deep, sepulchral gloom,
Ye dwarf the spirit in its dawn,
And throw the darkness of the tomb,
In the young soul's bright hour to bloom,

Its deathless energies upon

In which enshrouded it must lie
And bear its pent-up agony!

Go, see these infants where they crawl*
In fearful bondage day by day,
Go, see where tear-drops thickly fall
Upon their burdens on the way.

These mines are England's sin-cursed heart-
Their sinuous windings are its veins—
From which its streams of riches start,
And fill its giant form with pains;
Pollution fills the cells within

And sends corruption through its frame,
While dark, corrosive, damning sin

Casts all its blight on England's name; And when its bosom heaves, ye hear

A stifled wail's sepulchral sound Bring dark forebodings to the ear,

While blood cries out from underground! The poor men's children do not know

What childhood is, their tearful eyes First fall on scenes of pain and woe And life's most stern realities;

They breathe, but not the breath of heavenThe coal-pit's damps of death are theirs; And in the joyous spring-time given

To be unknown of life's dull cares, Condemned to toil they drag along Their heavy burdens 'neath the thong; In these dark cells they eke away

They drag wheeled carriages or sledges by a belt or girdle fastened round the loins, and a chain attached to it in front and passing between the limbs to the wagon or sledge, which the child drags on all fours, through passages in soine instances not more than ten or twenty inches in height.

The rosy dawn of childhood's day,
And early in their thraldom learn
What sorrow is; for every prayer
Their lordlings and oppressors spurn,
And mete them out but vengeance there.
Hope stricken with the arrow dies
While rayless gloom before them lies,
And crushed and withered in the hour
They bow submissive to its power,
And spirit-broken humbly kneel
Beneath the bold oppressor's heel.

Would ye know more of England's isle?
Of England's youth and England's pride?
Go to yon vast and dusky pile,

In which a thousand beings hide!

See

ye that feeble, faltering limb That scarce supports his trembling frame, And can ye mildly gaze on him,

Or will ye blush with burning shame?
Thy greatness springs from thence, my lord!
His misery yields thy rich perfume!
But soon 'twill be to him restored

To strip away thy robber's plume!
And ere the pale, gray morning light
Streaks all along the eastern sky,
The children's slumbers take their flight
And bear with them the waking sigh;
The spectre of the rude, rough hand,
That keeps them toiling all day long,
Is fellow to the harsh command,

The upraised arm and leathern thong;
No balmy sleep is theirs at night

Revivifying childhood's powers,
No morning breaks upon the sight

To waft to them untroubled hours,
And bid them join in pastime sweet
With bounding heart and tripping feet,
Where'er the gaudy butterfly
Their childish arts can all defy,
And tips with golden light his wings
Whence the pure ether softly springs;
Where mirth bedimples every cheek
And flashing eyes of pleasure speak,
And daisies spring, the heart to teach,
In nature's holiest, purest speech,
The beauty of her gentle powers,
The innocence of childhood's hours.
The poor men's children wake in pain
From fitful, dark, unwelcome dreams,
And painful crawl to toil again

Which e'er their sad fulfilment seems,
And drag along unrested limbs
While tears each lifeless eye bedims:

They have a faith in dreams, I ween,
For every day their truth is seen!
Go, follow where the children lead-
Is not that noble, rich, and great?
There poor men's children daily bleed
To gather riches for the State!
Each seeks his own accustomed part
While terror chills the breaking heart,
And soon ye hear the busy sound:
The wheels of vast machines go round-
The fires again more brightly burn-
A thousand drums more swiftly turn-
And art seems prodigal of skill

The crowded realm with wealth to fill,
Performing with her wondrous power
A week's hard labor in an hour:
For all of these I would not care,

If poor men's children were not there.

There toil they when the dawn appears
To whisper in the ear of night.
Again this gloom the sunbeam nears,
Dispelling darkness with the light;
There toil they when the morning ray
Flashes bright waves from shore to shore,
Extatic leaping on their way

Fair nature's beauties to restore;
The little lark in gladness springs
And sweet orisons gently sings,
While up to heaven it seems to soar
Its great Creator to adore;
Anon the mellow sounds are heard
That tell the tiny humming-bird
Is glancing near on quivering wing,
Capricious, yet enchanting thing;
It touches every flowret's lip
The nectar from the cup to sip,
And vies with honey-bees each hour
Who most can win from every flower;
While these, of every form and hue,
Their varied tints again renew,
And analyze the passing light
To robe themselves, and all bedight
With beauty by their Author given,
They bid it speed upon its flight,
But seize their own inherent right,
Then cast their incense forth to heaven.

But, oh! the children ne'er partake
Of joy to which the insects wake,
When piping forth their roundelay
They hail the glad approach of day;
They ne'er inhale the ether pure,

Nor quaff the sweet inspiring draught,
Nor lovely scenes their eyes allure,

Nor Zephyrs pleasure to them waft;Immured within these dreary walls,

'Mid smoke and dust, and steam, and gloom, The desolation on them falls,

And grief and pain their hearts consume; There England finds her richest spoil,

Her infants offered at her shrine,
For there they ever, ever toil,

And shed their tears and helpless pine;
For night and day in mute despair
The poor men's children labor there!
Great iron wheels go round and round,
And vast machines of every name
Send forth their ceaseless busy sound
The children's labor e'er to claim;
And there the infant toilers sit

And ply their fingers' active skill, The little pins with heads to fit,

And ply them ever, ever still;
Or each the silvery wash distils
From his own veins, to cleanse a pin-
The strangest formula that fills

The fearful chemistry of sin;
Could maidens who so freely wear
These little ping, nor seem to care,
Behold the price the children pay

Those gloomy walls all day within,
Methinks they could not throw away-
It is so cheap-a little pin:
For oft to me a pin appears
Corroded by an infant's tears.

Or here their fellows, hour by hour,
The cotton-cloths forever steep,
And terror stricken* fear the power
That brings the toil o'er which they weep;
They breathe the vapor of their tears!
Each day its sad rotation brings
'Till each more drear to them appears-
Self-moving, macerated things!

Or here, another class is seen
Keeping the giant engines clean,
And every shape the frame can bear
They make their little limbs assume,
And life and vigor they consume,
And mind and soul for matter there ;†
And up
and down they ever turn
Each spot and blemish to discern,
And in their painful task they find
Their falling tears have made them blind;
But when they fall, along with dust,
They wipe them off for fear of rust;
Methinks, were they not wiped away,

The iron wheels would cease to drone,
For rust the gearing would decay

And leave them standing all alone;
The infant's tear-drops ever roll

While he the engine ever cleans,
And makes his spirit, mind and soul,
A spirit fire for dumb machines.
What see they in the years to come?
A blissful future, glad and free?
Oh, no! they only visions see
Of constant toil, and sad and dumb
They ever still inherit there
The infant's birthright of despair.
And when the day is past and gone,
A sweet release does evening bring?
Oh, no! the infant labors on

A crippled, blind, unrested thing!
The mellow light speaks not to him

A pure, sweet calm to soothe his powers,

*Mr. Thomas Daniel, in his examination before the Children's Employment Commission, testified-"They are always in terror; I consider that does them as much injury as the labor, their minds being in a constant state of agitation and fear." "They are constantly in a state of grief though some of them cannot shed tears."

+ Mr. Daniel remarked further-"They are in all sorts of postures that the human body is capable of being put into, to come at the machines." "Their work is to keep the machines, while they are going, clean from all kinds of dust and dirt that may be flying about, and they are in all sorts of positions to come at them." &c.