And they sang- "Hurra for Tubal Cain,
Who hath given us strength anew!
Hurra for the smith, hurra for the fire,
And hurra for the metal true!"

III.

But a sudden change came o'er his heart
Ere the setting of the sun,

And Tubal Cain was fill'd 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 the 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."

IV.

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 "Hurra 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.

V.

And men, taught wisdom from the past,

In friendship join'd their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,

And plough'd the willing lands;

And sang

"Hurra for Tubal Cain!

Our staunch 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!"

PROCRASTINATIONS.

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PROCRASTINATIONS.

I.

If Fortune with a smiling face
Strew roses on our way,

When shall we stoop to pick them up?
To-day, my love, to-day.

But should she frown with face of care,
And talk of coming sorrow,

When shall we grieve-if grieve we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

II.

If those who've wrong'd us own their faults,
And kindly pity pray,

When shall we listen and forgive?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But, if stern Justice urge rebuke,
And warmth from Memory borrow,
When shall we chide-if chide we dare?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

III.

If those to whom we owe a debt

Are harmed unless we pay,

When shall we struggle to be just?

To-day, my love, to-day.

But if our debtor fail our hope

And plead his ruin thorough,

When shall we weigh his breach of faith?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

IV.

If Love, estranged, should once again
Her genial smile display,

When shall we kiss her proffered lips?
To-day, my love, to-day.

But, if she would indulge regret,
Or dwell with bygone sorrow,

When shall we weep-if weep we must?
To-morrow, love, to-morrow.

V.

For virtuous acts and harmless joys
The minutes will not stay;

We've always time to welcome them,
To-day, my love, to-day.

THE daughter of Thomas Sheridan, and granddaughter of Richard Brinsley Sheridan, this lady bore a name that was a passport to public favour. She has well supported the honours of her family. CarolineElisabeth-Sarah was one of three daughters, remarkable for talents and beauty, born to Thomas Sheridan and his wife, a daughter of Colonel and Lady Elisabeth Callander of Craigforth. She early gave indications of a love for literature, and in her seventeenth year wrote "The Sorrows of Rosalie," a poetical story of village life. In her nineteenth year she was married to the Hon. G. C. Norton, son of the first Lord Grantley; but this union proved peculiarly unhappy, and was dissolved in 1840. In 1831 Mrs. Norton published "The Undying One," a poem founded on the old legend of the Wandering Jew; and she has since written "The Wife," a novel, 1835; "The Dream and other Poems," 1840; "The Child of the Islands," 1845; "Tales and Sketches, in Prose and Verse;" 'Stuart of Dunleath," a novel, etc., etc. On many questions of social interest and importance, Mrs. Norton has been an anxious and useful labourer. Her poetry is earnest and passionate-strong though alternating with feminine tenderness and beauty of expression.

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THE MOTHER'S HEART.

WHEN first thou camest, gentle, shy, and fond,
My eldest born, first hope, and dearest treasure,
My heart received thee with a joy beyond
All that it yet had felt of earthly pleasure;
Nor thought that any love again might be
So deep and strong as that I felt for thee.

Faithful and true, with sense beyond thy years,
And natural piety that leaned to heaven;
Wrung by a harsh word suddenly to tears,
Yet patient of rebuke when justly given-
Obedient, easy to be reconciled,

And meekly cheerful--such wert thou, my child.

Not willing to be left: still by my side

Haunting my walks, while summer-day was dying;

Nor leaving in thy turn; but pleased to glide

Through the dark room, where I was sadly lying;
Or by the couch of pain, a sitter meek,

Watch the dim eye, and kiss the feverish cheek.

THE MOTHER'S HEART.

O boy! of such as thou are oftenest made

Earth's fragile idols; like a tender flower,
No strength in all thy freshness-prone to fade—
And bending weakly to the thunder shower-
Still round the loved, thy heart found force to bind,
And clung like woodbine shaken in the wind.

Then thou, my merry love, bold in thy glee
Under the bough, or by the firelight dancing,
With thy sweet temper and thy spirit free,

Didst come as restless as a bird's wing glancing,
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,

Like a young sunbeam to the gladdened earth!

Thine was the shout! the song! the burst of joy!
Which sweet from childhood's rosy lip resoundeth!
Thine was the eager spirit nought could cloy

And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth ;
And many a mirthful jest and mock reply
Lurked in the laughter of thy dark-blue eye!

And thine was many an art to win and bless,

The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming; The coaxing smile the frequent soft caress

The earnest, tearful prayer, all wrath disarming! Again my heart a new affection found,

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But thought that love with thee had reached its bound.

At length thou camest-thou, the last and least,

Nicknamed 'the emperor' by thy laughing brothers,

Because a haughty spirit swelled thy breast,

And thou didst seek to rule and sway the others; Mingling with every playful infant wile

A mimic majesty that made us smile.

And oh ! most like a regal child wert thou!

An eye of resolute and successful scheming-
Fair shoulders, curling lip, and dauntless brow-
Fit for the world's strife, not for poet's dreaming:
And proud the lifting of thy stately head,
And the firm bearing of thy conscious tread.

Different from both! yet each succeeding claim,
I, that all other love had been forswearing,
Forthwith admitted, equal and the same;

Nor injured either by this love's comparing,
Nor stole a fraction for the newer call,
But in the mother's heart found room for all.

PROFESSOR AYTOUN.

(1813-1865).

WILLIAM EDMONSTOUNE ATYOUN, a native of Edinburgh, while a student in the University there, in 1831, wrote a prize poem, "Judith,' and shortly afterwards "Poland and other Poems." He studied for the Scottish bar, but abandoned it for literature. In 1839 he commenced a connection with Blackwood's Magazine, which existed till his death, and during which he contributed above one hundred and twenty pieces in prose and verse-ballads, tales, political essays, and criticism. His most popular work is "Lays of the Scottish Cavaliers," a series of ballads on interesting portions of Scottish history, which have gone through many editions. He is author also of a narrative poem, in the same style, "Bothwell;" of a clever satirical poem, "Firmilian;" of the "Bon Gaultier Ballads," written in conjunction with Mr. Theodore Martin; and of a translation of the "Poems of Goethe," in which also Mr. Martin was joint-labourer. In 1845 Mr. Aytoun was appointed to the chair of Rhetoric and Belles Lettres in the University of Edinburgh, in which he was highly popular; and in 1852 he was made Sheriff of Orkney. His sudden death, which took place at Blackhills, near Elgin, just after he had completed his 52d year, was deeply regretted. Mr. Aytoun's fame may be said to rest on his Cavalier Lays, which are picturesque and animated; but his humorous pieces, both in prose and verse, evince more real talent and originality.

THE BURIAL MARCH OF DUNDEE.

Lo! we bring with us the hero-
Lo! we bring the conquering Græme,
Crowned as best beseems a victor
From the altar of his fame;
Fresh and bleeding from the battle
Whence his spirit took its flight,
Midst the crashing charge of squadrons
And the thunder of the fight!
Strike, I say, the notes of triumph,
As we march o'er moor and lea!
Is there any here will venture
To bewail our dead Dundee?

Let the widows of the traitors
Weep until their eyes are dim!
Wail ye may full well for Scotland-
Let none dare to mourn for him!
See! above his glorious body
Lies the royal banner's fold-
See! his valiant blood is mingled
With its crimson and its gold.
See how calm he looks and stately,
Like a warrior on his shield,
Waiting till the flush of morning
Breaks along the battle-field!