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Ye winds that have made me your sport,

Convey to this desolate shore, Some cordial endearing report

Of a land I shall visit no more. My friends--do they now and then send,

A wish or a thought after me? Oh! tell me I yet have a friend,

Though a friend I am never to see,

How fleet is a glance of the mind !

Compared with the speed of its flight, The tempest itself lags behind,

And the swift-winged arrows of light. When I think of my own native land,

In a moment I seem to be there; But, alas ! recollection at hand

Soon hurries me back to despair.

But the sea-fowl is gone to her nest,

The beast is laid down in his lair, Even here is a season of rest,

And I to my cabin repair. There is mercy in every place,

And mercy-encouraging thought! Gives even affliction a grace,

And reconciles man to his lot.

À FLOWER OF THE HOUSEHOLD,

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.

WEET darling of our wedded souls,

With beauty on thy brow,
We ask that God's best benison

May follow thee from now ;-
That little care, and less of sin,

May meet thee on thy way,
Is our heart-uttered hope and prayer,

On this thy natal day.

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Gaily thou goest to and fro,

Unconscious of all wrong,
With a sweet light upon thy face,

And music on thy tongue;
And in thy presence we receive

What makes our thoughts more bright,A portion of thy purity,

A share of thy delight.
Thy pure, spontaneous narratives

Evince mind's growing powers;
Thy artless questions test the strength

Of wiser minds than ours :
Thy transient moods of gravity,

Thy bursts of happy glee,
Thy whole demeanour-brisk or calm

Strengthen our love for thee.

We watch thy merry, Winsome ways,

And inwardly rejoice ;
Our ears are charm'd, our hearts are movd,

By thy seductive voice.
We touch thee with a fond caress,

Our feelings brimming o'er,
And own that Heaven has lent to us

One priceless blessing more.

And we, by help of light divine,

Will strive to guide thee so
That hope, faith, firmness, peace, and joy,

May mark thy lot below:
Such is our wish,-though we may fail

In what we strive to do ;
But the great, good, and guardian Power,

Will bring thee safely through.

Cares will be thine, for such we need

To curb unjust desires,
To make us feel our littleness,

And quench unhallowed fires :
But oh! when thou art called to leave

This sphere of strife and sin,
May smiling angels stoop from Heaven,

And take our darling in !

London : FRED. PITMAN, 20, Paternoster Row, E.C.

Printed by J. WARD, Dewsbury.

Popular Lecturer and Reader.

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(Delivered to the Members of the Manchester and Salford Phonographic

Union, 25th February, 1863.]

HE author of the “Song of the Shirt,” whom the world

holds in so tender and close a remembrance, is best known as a comic writer. This evening I wish to lay aside his comic writings, from which his life cannot properly be told, and to speak of Thomas Hood—the man. People who look no further than the outside, who put their faith in the seen and ignore the unseen, form their estimate of Hood from his merry laughable conceits,

'Quips and cranks, and wanton wiles,

Nods, and becks, and wreathèd smiles." They argue that because Hood wrote humorously, therefore his life and character must be shallow and contemptible, a writer to be held in detestation. Such arguers are, however, in the wrong; and the author is misjudged and misunderstood. I shall show you that Hood was one of God's most earnest children, that he was a sincere, benevolent Christian gentleman. The publication of some Memorials” of the poet, a few years ago, edited by his children, have revealed some facts in connection with his life which have in some measure explained his sad, strange genius, and which have caused his writings to be more widely known in England and America. His works are becoming daily more appreciated, and ere long he will fill up a vacant niche among England's great masters of the pen.

6.JUNE,

His life may be likened to an unfinished poem ; but the insight afforded into it by the “ Memorials,” proves it to be worthy of the most earnest study and meditation. I shall strive to lay it before you in the most interesting way, namely, in his own words; and if, therefore, any credit is due for the compilation, it must be that, like Montaigne, I have strung the fragments together.

Thomas Hood was born in the closing year of the last century. The family name is a plain one, but, in the hands of him who brought it into notice, it was a prolific syllable for many a pun. Thus he is said to have remarked during his last illness, that he was dying out of charity to his undertaker, who wished to urn a lively Hood! Of his birth and family there is little known. He had no notable pedigree, but was one of those self-raised men who, having made their way by their own exertions to Fame's giddy temple, could say with Napoleon, “ I am my own ancestry! And with a prouder boast; for whereas Napoleon waded thither through fields of gore, Hood attained the position by shedding no blood but his own. Hood's account of his ancestors was, that as his grandmother was a Miss Armstrong, he was descended from two notorious thieves, 1. e., Robin Hood and Johnny Armstrong. Hood thus sprang from the people ; but it did not follow that he must therefore attack those above him, and array class against class ; his life was spent in the people's service, and in his writings he ever tried to cement the bonds between all sections of society, aiming “to draw them nearer by kindly attraction, not to aggravate the existing repulsion, and place a wider gulf between rich and poor, with Hate on one side and Fear on the other.”

His father was a Scotchman, and, Scotchman-like, left his country to seek his fortune. It would appear he was in a way to succeed, for at the time of his son's birth he was a partner in the publishing firm of Ventnor, Hood, and Sharp. He is noted for favouring a scheme which does him credit, --that of republishing old standard works. Then, as now, the old authors were neglected ; and the public, like the Athenians of old, sought after what was new. This demand for “ sensation" books leads to the acquisition of a morbid literary taste. Hood, senior, wrote two novels which all tracted some notice in his day; and was in other respects 3 &

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