An obligation on her part to teach

Them who are born to serve her and obey;
Binding herself by statute to secure

For all the children whom her soil maintains
The rudiments of letters, and inform
The mind with moral and religious truth,
Both understood and practised,—so that none,
However destitute, be left to droop

By timely culture unsustained; or run

Into a wild disorder; or be forced

To drudge through a weary life without the help
Of intellectual implements and tools;
A savage horde among the civilised,
A servile band among the lordly free!
This sacred right, the lisping babe proclaims
To be inherent in him, by Heaven's will,
For the protection of his innocence;
And the rude boy-who, having overpast
The sinless age, by conscience is enrolled,
Yet mutinously knits his angry brow,
And lifts his wilful hand on mischief bent,
Or turns the godlike faculty of speech
To impious use-by process indirect

Declares his due, while he makes known his need.

This sacred right is fruitlessly announced,
This universal plea in vain addressed,

To eyes and ears of parents who themselves
Did, in the time of their necessity,

Urge it in vain; and, therefore, like a prayer
That from the humblest floor ascends to heaven,
It mounts to reach the state's parental ear;
Who, if indeed she owns a mother's heart,
And be not most unfeelingly devoid
Of gratitude to Providence, will grant

The unquestionable good-which England, safe

From interference of external force,
May grant at leisure, without risk incurred
That what in wisdom for herself she doth,
Others shall ne'er be able to undo.

Look! and behold, from Calpe's sunburnt cliffs
To the flat margin of the Baltic Sea,
Long reverenced titles cast away as weeds;
Laws overturned; and territory split,
Like fields of ice rent by the polar wind,
And forced to join in less obnoxious shapes,
That ere they gain consistence, by a gust
Of the same breath are spattered and destroyed.
Meantime the sovereignty of these fair isles
Remains entire and indivisible;

And if that ignorance were removed, which breeds
Within the compass of their several shores
Dark discontent or loud commotion, each
Might still preserve the beautiful repose
Of heavenly bodies shining in their spheres.
The discipline of slavery is unknown
Among us, hence the more do we require
The discipline of virtue; order else
Cannot subsist, nor confidence, nor peace.
Thus, duties rising out of good possest
And prudent caution needful to avert
Impending evil, equally require

That the whole people should be taught and trained.
So shall licentiousness and black resolve
Be rooted out, and virtuous habits take
Their place; and genuine piety descend,
Like an inheritance, from age to age.

THE LAST BUCCANIER.-(Charles Kingsley.)

Oh, England is a pleasant place for them that's rich and high,

But England is a cruel place for such poor folks as I ;

And such a port for mariners I ne'er shall see again As the pleasant isle of Avès, beside the Spanish main.

There were forty craft in Avès that were both swift and stout,

All furnished well with small arms and cannons round about;

And a thousand men in Avès made laws so fair and free

To choose their valiant captains and obey them loyally.

Thence we sailed against the Spaniard, with his hoards of plate and gold,

Which he wrung with cruel tortures from Indian folk of old;

Likewise the merchant captains, with hearts as hard as stone,

Who flog men and keel-haul them, and starve them to the bone.

Oh, the palms grow high in Avès, and fruits that shone like gold,

And the colibris and parrots, they were gorgeous to behold;

And the negro maids to Avès from bondage fast did flee,

To welcome gallant sailors a sweeping in from sea.

Oh, sweet it was in Avès to hear the landward breeze,

A-swing with good tobacco in a net between the trees,

With a negro lass to fan you, while you listen'd to the roar

Of the breakers on the reef outside, that never touched the shore.

But Scripture saith, an ending to all fine things must be ;

So the king's ships sailed on Avès, and quite put down were we.

All day we fought like bull-dogs, but they burst the booms at night;

And I fled in a piragua, sore wounded, from the fight.

Nine days I floated starving, and a negro lass beside,

Till for all I tried to cheer her, the poor young thing, she died;

But as I lay a-gasping, a Bristol sail came by And brought me home to England here, to beg until I die.

And now I'm old and going-I'm sure I can't tell where ;

One comfort is, this world's so hard, I can't be worse off there:

If I might but be a sea-dove, I'd fly across the

main,

To the pleasant isle of Avès, to look at it once again.

THE FAIRIES OF THE CALDON-LOW.-A
MIDSUMMER LEGEND.-(Mary Howitt.)

"And where have you been, my Mary,
And where have you been from me?"
"I've been to the top of the Caldon-Low,
The Midsummer night to see!"

"And what did you see, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon-Low?"

"I saw the blithe sunshine come down,
And I saw the merry winds blow."

"And what did you hear, my Mary,
All up on the Caldon Hill?”

"I heard the drops of the water made,
And the green corn ears to fill."

Oh, tell me all, my Mary-
All, all that ever you know;
For you must have seen the fairies,
Last night on the Caldon-Low."

"Then take me on your knee, mother,
And listen, mother of mine :
A hundred fairies danced last night,
And the harpers they were nine.

"And merry was the glee of the harp-strings
And their dancing feet so small;

But, oh, the sound of their talking

Was merrier far than all!"

"And what were the words, my Mary,

That you did hear them say?"

"I'll tell you all, my mother

But let me have my way!