BY CHARLES MACKAY.

There are three preachers, ever preaching,
Fill’d with eloquence and power:—­
One is old, with locks of white,
Skinny as an anchorite;
And he preaches every hour
With a shrill fanatic voice,
And a bigot’s fiery scorn:—­
“Backward! ye presumptuous nations;
Man to misery is born! 
Born to drudge, and sweat, and suffer—­
Born to labour and to pray;
Backward!’ ye presumptuous nations—­
Back!—­be humble and obey!”

The second is a milder preacher;
Soft he talks as if he sung;
Sleek and slothful is his look,
And his words, as from a book,
Issue glibly from his tongue. 
With an air of self-content,
High he lifts his fair white hands: 
“Stand ye still! ye restless nations;
And be happy, all ye lands! 
Fate is law, and law is perfect;
If ye meddle, ye will mar;
Change is rash, and ever was so: 
We are happy as we are.”

Mightier is the younger preacher,
Genius flashes from his eyes: 
And the crowds who hear his voice
Give him, while their souls rejoice,
Throbbing bosoms for replies. 
Awed they listen, yet elated,
While his stirring accents fall:—­
“Forward! ye deluded nations,
Progress is the rule of all: 
Man was made for healthful effort;
Tyranny has crush’d him long;
He shall march from good to better,
And do battle with the wrong.

“Standing still is childish folly,
Going backward is a crime: 
None should patiently endure
Any ill that he can cure;
Onward! keep the march of Time,
Onward! while a wrong remains
To be conquer’d by the right;
While Oppression lifts a finger
To affront us by his might;
While an error clouds the reason
Of the universal heart,
Or a slave awaits his freedom
Action is the wise man’s part.

“Lo! the world is rich in blessings: 
Earth and Ocean, flame and wind,
Have unnumber’d secrets still,
To be ransack’d when you will,
For the service of mankind;
Science is a child as yet,
And her power and scope shall grow,
And her triumphs in the future
Shall diminish toil and woe;
Shall extend the bounds of pleasure
With an ever-widening ken,
And of woods and wildernesses
Make the homes of happy men.

“Onward!—­there are ills to conquer,
Daily wickedness is wrought,
Tyranny is swoln with Pride,
Bigotry is deified,
Error intertwined with Thought,
Vice and Misery ramp and crawl;—­
Root them out, their day has pass’d;
Goodness is alone immortal;
Evil was not made to last: 
Onward! and all earth shall aid us
Ere our peaceful flag be furl’d.”—­
And the preaching of this preacher
Stirs the pulses of the world.

SAY NOT THE STRUGGLE.

BY ARTHUR HUGH CLOUGH.

Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not, nor faileth,
And as things have been they remain.