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A Vision of the Crystal Palace.

(10th June, 1854.)

THERE are things more frail than visions, there are falser words than dreams

Bring, unchallenged, wildly mingling strangest with most common themes;

But I know not, as each Master laid his gift before the throne,

If I thought the thought of myriads, or my fancy stray'd alone.

Marching came a swarth procession, mustering from the banks of Nile,

Abject-eyed believers, marshall'd by stern priests with eyes of guile.

And with mystic types and symbols were their garments studded o'er,

And the awful veil of Isis was the banner that they bore.

Following trod a prouder army, striding on with martial tread,

From a City, lost for ages, that hath yielded up

dead.

her

And a grim and giant Monster stalking fiercely in

the van,

'Twas a winged Beast-more dreadful that it wore the face of man.

Next a graceful throng went by me, from a classic region fair,

Chisell❜d features, flowing garments, laurel wreaths in golden hair;

And a God and Goddess led them, glorious types of War and Peace,

Neptune and Minerva ever watching o'er their well loved Greece.

From their seven-hill'd home eternal, then the haughty Swordsmen came,

Lictor's fasces, gory axe-head, and the she-wolf's glance of flame,

And four ever famous Letters borne on high in that array,

Told a world that Rome was present-proudly bade the world obey.

Whose luxurious pomp succeeds them, who in smiling throng advance,

Glistening in that flowery raiment, tripping as to feast and dance ?

So they glisten'd, so they revell'd, so was struck the sparkling lyre,

On the day Pompeii perish'd, shrieking in yon

mountain's fire.

Some come mourning, come as those whose brightest day hath shone and fled,

Are they from Byzantium's rampart, where a heroking lies dead

From the noblest fane that glows beneath an oriental sky

Raised to Christian Wisdom-bearing now the symbol of a Lie.

Came the Church in purple glory and a wealth of gems and gold,

Steel-clad knights in soldier-splendour, banners of emblazon'd fold,

Armourer, herald, jester, hawker, planet-reader, squire, and page,

Chivalry's thrice gorgeous chapter from her proudest Middle Age.

Art's procession followed, calmly, lofty as their port should be,

Who had dash'd down feudal shackles, and proclaim'd that Art is free.

Gazing on their deeds of beauty, who but scorns the bigot prate,

That assails their noble mission with a Goth's fantastic hate?

What a glorious train came after, every lofty face a Fame,

All whose Thought our age inherits, or our age itself shall claim.

Those whose names, in self-made light, are burning still on honour's scrolls,

Those to whom the world is debtor-shall be debtor while it rolls.

But what thunder wave of music comes in grandeur surging out?

Never yet ascended Homage in a nobler, mightier

shout,

Fancy's visions instant scatter-sense itself is growing dim,

As all space seems tiding over with that rushing, whelming hymn.

There are things more frail than visions, there are falser words than dreams

Bring, unchallenged, wildly mingling strangest with most common themes;

And I know not, as each Master laid his gift before the Throne,

If I thought the thought of myriads, or my fancy stray'd alone.

SHIRLEY BROOKS.

The Two Stammerers.

In a small quiet country town,
Lived Hob, a blunt but honest clown;
Who, spite of all the school could teach,
From habit stammer'd in his speech;
And second nature, soon, we're sure,
Confirm'd the case beyond a cure.
Ask him to say hot rolls and butter,
A "hag-a gag" and "splitter-splutter,"
Stopp'd every word he strove to utter.

It happen'd once upon a time-
I word it thus to suit my rhyme,
For all our country neighbours know
It can't be twenty years ago—
Our sturdy ploughman, apt to strike,
Was busy delving at his dyke;
Which, let me not forget to say,
Stood close behind a public way,

And, as he lean'd upon his spade,
Reviewing o'er the work he'd made,
A youth, a stranger in that place,
Stood right before him, face to face-
"P-p-p-p-p-pray," says he,

"How f-f-f-f-far may't be

To-to "-the words would not come out-
"T-to Boroughbridge, or thereabout ?"
Our clown took huff, thrice hemm'd upon't,
Then smelt a kind of an affront.

Thought he, "This bluff fool-hardy fellow,
A little crack'd perhaps, or mellow,
Knowing my tongue an inch too short,
Is come to jeer and make his sport;
Wauns! if I thought he meant to quarrel,
I'd hoop the rascal's roynish barrel!
If me he means or dares deride,
By all that's good I'll tan his hide!
I'll dress his vile calf's skin in buff,
And thresh it tender where 'tis tough."

Thus, full resolved, he stood aloof,
And waited mute for further proof;
While t'other, in a kind of pain,
Applied him to his tongue again :-
'Speak, friend, c-c-c-c-can you, pray,
Sh-sh-sh-show me-on my-way?
Nay, sp-e-ak!-I'll smoke thy bacon!
You have a t-tongue, or I'm mistaken!"

"Yes, that, th-that I-I-I have,

But not for y-y-you, you knave!"