Brothers and sisters! full well ye have stood, While the gripe of gaunt Famine has curdled your blood! No murmur, no threat on your lips have place, Though ye look on the Hunger-fiend face to face; But haggard and worn ye silently bear, Dragging your death-chains with patience and prayer; With your hearts as loyal, your deeds as right, As when Plenty and Sleep blest your day and your night, Brothers and sisters! oh! do not believe It is Charity's GOLD ALONE ye receive. Ah, no! It is Sympathy, Feeling, and Hope, That pull out in the Life-boat to fling ye a rope. Fondly I've lauded your wealth-winning hands, Planting Commerce and Fame throughout measureless lands; And my patriot-love, and my patriot-song, To the children of Labour will ever belong. Women and men of this brave old soil! I weep that starvation should guerdon your toil; But I glory to see ye--proudly mute-- Showing SOULS like the HERO, not FANGS like the brute. Oh! keep courage within; be the Britons ye are; HE, who driveth the storm hath His hand on the star! England to England's sons shall be true, And "God and the People" will carry ye through! THE SMOKELESS CHIMNEY BY A LANCASHIRE LADY {1} (E.J.B.) STRANGER! who to buy art willing, Seek not here for talent rare; Mine's no song of love or beauty, But a tale of want and care. Traveller on the Northern Railway! Look and learn, as on you speed; See the hundred smokeless chimneys, Learn their tale of cheerless need. Ah! perchance the landscape fairer Charms your taste, your artist-eye; Little do you guess how dearly Costs that now unclouded sky. "How much prettier is this county!" Says the careless passer-by; "Clouds of smoke we see no longer, What's the reason?--Tell me why. "Better far it were, most surely, Never more such clouds to see, Bringing taint o'er nature's beauty, With their foul obscurity." Thoughtless fair one! from yon chimney Floats the golden breath of life; Stop that current at your pleasure! Stop! and starve the child--the wife. Ah! to them each smokeless chimney Is a signal of despair; They see hunger, sickness, ruin, Written in that pure, bright air. "Mother! mother! see! 'twas truly Said last week the mill would stop; Mark yon chimney, nought is going, There's no smoke from 'out o'th top!' "Father! father! what's the reason That the chimneys smokeless stand? Is it true that all through strangers, We must starve in our own land?" Low upon her chair that mother Droops, and sighs with tearful eye; At the hearthstone lags the father, Musing o'er the days gone by. Days which saw him glad and hearty, Punctual at his work of love; When the week's end brought him plenty, And he thanked the Lord above. When his wages, earned so justly, Gave him clothing, home, and food; When his wife, with fond caresses, Blessed his heart, so kind and good. Neat and clean each Sunday saw them, In their place of prayer and praise, Little dreaming that the morrow Piteous cries for help would raise.