GERALD MASSEY was born near Tring, Hertfordshire, England, May 29, 1828. His father was a canal-boatman, and could not write his own name. His mother was naturally a superior woman, but as illiterate as her husband. At the age of eight Gerald was sent to work in a silk-mill, where the hours of labor were from five in the morning till half-past six in the evening; and his weekly earnings were from eighteen to twenty-eight cents! After a time the mill was burned down, and then he went to work at straw - plaiting. He had learned to read at a penny school, and had access to the Bible and "Pilgrim's Progress," to which were subsequently added "Robinson Crusoe " and a bundle of Wesleyan tracts. At the age of fifteen he went to London as an errand-boy. There he became at once a voracious reader, and at length fell in love, when for the first time he took to writing poetry. He says, "The first verses I ever made were upon hope, when I was utterly hopeless; and after I had begun, I never ceased for about four years, at the end of which time I rushed into print."

His effusions appeared in a provincial newspaper, and were gathered into a shilling volume entitled "Poems and Chansons," published at Tring, of which two hundred and fifty copies were sold. The French Revolution of 1848 had

THE BALLAD OF BABE CHRISTABEL.

WHEN Danaë-Earth bares all her charms,

And gives the god her perfect flower, Who, in the sunshine's golden shower, Leaps warm into her amorous arms!

And all the kindled greenery glows, While from her emeraldine sea Spring rises up rejoicingly, And life hath richest overflows:

When young maids feel love stir i' the blood,
And wanton with the kissing leaves
And branches, and the quick sap heaves,
And dances to a ripened flood;

Till, blown to its hidden heart with sighs,
Love's red rose burns in cheeks so dear,
And, as sea-jewels upward peer,
Love-thoughts melt through their swimming
eyes:

a powerful effect upon his mind, and in 1849, in company with several other working-men, he started the "Spirit of Freedom," an ultra-radical weekly, and was its editor. His editorial work was done at night, after the hours of his regular occupation were over; and it is said to have cost him five situations in less than a year. He became a co-laborer with Kingsley and Maurice in their plans for cooperative associations among the laboring classes. About the same time his poems in London journals and magazines began to attract attention. In 1853 he received a pension, and Lord Brownlow has given him a pretty cottage in his native county, where he now resides.

Massey has published in book form: "The Ballad of Babe Christabel, and other Poems," 1853; Craigcrook Castle," 1856; "Robert Burns, and other Lyrics," 1859; "Voices of Freedom and Lyrics of Love," 1859; “Havelock's March, and other Poems," 1861; "Shakespeare's Sonnets never before Interpreted," 1866; and "A Tale of Eternity, and other Poems," 1870. His poems are republished in Boston in one volume. In 1873-74 he made a lecturing tour in the United States, his most interesting theme being Spiritualism, in which he is a firm believer, and of which he presents a more attractive and poetical exposition than any other of its celebrated disciples.

When Beauty walks in bravest dress,

And, fed with April's mellow showers, The Earth laughs out with sweet May-flowers That flush for very happiness:

And Spider-Puck his wonder weaves

O' nights, and nooks of greening gloom
Are rich with violets that bloom

In the cool dark of dewy leaves:

When rose-buds drink the fiery wine

Of dawn, with crimson stains i' the mouth, All thirstily as yearning Youth From Love's hand drinks the draught divine;

And honeyed plots are drowsed with bees; And larks rain music by the shower, While singing, singing hour by hour, Song like a spirit sits i' the trees!

When fainting hearts forget their fears,
And in the poorest life's salt-cup
Some rare wine runs, and Hope builds up
Her rainbow over Memory's tears!

In Death's face hers flashed up and smiled,
As smile the young flowers in their prime,
In the face of their gray murderer Time,
And Death for true-love kissed our child.

She thought our good-night kiss was given,
And like a lily her life did close;
Angels uncurtained that repose,
And the next waking dawned in heaven.

WITH her white hands clasped she sleepeth; heart is hushed, and lips are cold; Death shrouds up her heaven of beauty, and a weary way I go,

Like the sheep without a shepherd on the wintry norland wold,

With the face of day shut out by blinding

snow.

O'er its widowed nest my heart sits moaning for its youngling fled

From this world of wail and weeping, gone to join her starry peers;

And my light of life 's o'ershadowed where the dear one lieth dead,

And I'm crying in the dark with many fears.

All last night-tide she seemed near me, like a lost beloved bird,

Beating at the lattice louder than the sobbing wind and rain;

And I called across the night with tender name and fondling word;

And I yearned out through the darkness, all in vain.

Heart will plead, "Eyes cannot see her: they are blind with tears of pain;"

And it climbeth up and straineth for dear life to look and hark

While I call her once again: but there cometh no refrain,

And it droppeth down, and dieth in the dark.

In this dim world of clouding cares,

We rarely know, till wildered eyes See white wings lessening up the skies, The angels with us unawares.

And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!

Shall light thy dark up like a star,
A beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love, and fainting faith.

Through tears it streams perpetually,

And glitters through the thickest glooms, Till the eternal morning comes To light us o'er the jasper sea.

With our best branch in tenderest leaf,

We've strewn the way our Lord doth come;
And, ready for the harvest-home,

His reapers bind our ripest sheaf.

Our beautiful Bird of light hath fled Awhile she sat with folded wings-Sang round us a few hoveringsThen straightway into glory sped.

With sense of motherhood new-found
The white-winged angels nurture her,
High on the heavenly hills of myrrh,
And all Love's purple glory round.

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Through childhood's morning-land, serene
She walked betwixt us twain, like Love;
While, in a robe of light above,
Her better angel walked unseen,

Till life's highway broke bleak and wild;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The angel's arms caught up the child.

Her wave of life hath backward rolled

To the great ocean; on whose shore We wander up and down, to store Some treasures of the times of old:

And aye we seek and hunger on

For precious pearls and relics rare, Strewn on the sands for us to wear At heart, for love of her that's gone.

Oh, weep no more! there yet is balm

In Gilead! Love doth ever shed
Rich healing where it nestles-spread
O'er desert pillows, some green palm!

Strange glory streams through life's wild rents,
And through the open door of Death
We see the Heaven that beckoneth
To the beloved going hence.

God's ichor fills the hearts that bleed;

The best fruit loads the broken bough; And in the wounds our sufferings plough, Immortal Love sows sovereign seed.

TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW.

HIGH hopes that burned like stars sublime,
Go down i' the heavens of freedom;
And true hearts perish in the time
We bitterliest need 'em!

But never sit we down and say

There's nothing left but sorrow: We walk the Wilderness to-day,

The Promised Land to-morrow.

Our birds of song are silent now,
There are no flowers blooming!
Yet life is in the frozen bough,

And freedom's spring is coming!
And freedom's tide comes up alway,
Though we may strand in sorrow:
And our good bark, a-ground to-day,
Shall float again to-morrow.

Through all the long, dark night of years
The people's cry ascendeth,

And earth is wet with blood and tears:
But our meek sufferance endeth!
The few shall not forever sway,

The many moil in sorrow:
The powers of hell are strong to-day,
But Christ shall rise to-morrow.

Though hearts brood o'er the past, our eyes
With smiling futures glisten!
For, lo! our day bursts up the skies:
Lean out your souls and listen!
The world rolls freedom's radiant way,
And ripens with her sorrow:
Keep heart! who bear the cross to-day,
Shall wear the crown to-morrow.

O Youth! flame-earnest, still aspire,
With energies immortal!
To many a heaven of desire,

Our yearning opes a portal!
And though age wearies by the way,
And hearts break in the furrow,
We'll sow the golden grain to-day-
The harvest comes to-morrow.

Build up heroic lives, and all

Be like a sheathen sabre,
Ready to flash out at God's call,
O Chivalry of Labor!

Triumph and Toil are twins: and aye
Joy suns the cloud of sorrow;
And 't is the martyrdom to-day,
Brings victory to-morrow.

THE CHIVALRY OF LABOR.

UPROUSE ye now, brave brother-band,
With honest heart, and working hand:
We are but few, toil-tried, and true,
Yet hearts beat high to dare and do:
And who would not a champion be
In Labor's lordlier Chivalry?

We fight! but bear no bloody brand,
We fight to free our Fatherland:
We fight that smiles of love may glow
On lips where curses quiver now!
Hurrah! hurrah! true knights are we
In Labor's lordlier Chivalry.

Oh! there be hearts that ache to see
The day-dawn of our victory:
Eyes full of heart-break with us plead,
And watchers weep, and martyrs bleed:
Oh! who would not a champion be
In Labor's lordlier Chivalry?

Work, brothers mine; work, hand and brain;
We'll win the golden age again:

And Love's millennial morn shall rise
In happy hearts and blessed eyes.
Hurrah! hurrah! true knights are we
In Labor's lordlier Chivalry.

O LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR!

O LAY thy hand in mine, dear!

We 're growing old, we 're growing old; But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold, that hearts grow cold. 'Tis long, long since our new love

Made life divine, made life divine;

But age enricheth true love,

Like noble wine, like noble wine.

And lay thy cheek to mine, dear,

And take thy rest, and take thy rest; Mine arms around thee twine, dear,

And make thy nest, and make thy nest. A many cares are pressing

On this dear head, on this dear head; But Sorrow's hands in blessing

Are surely laid, are surely laid.

O lean thy life on mine, dear!

'T will shelter thee, 't will shelter thee. Thou wert a winsome vine, dear,

On my young tree, on my young tree: And so, till boughs are leafless,

And song-birds flown, and song-birds flown, We'll twine, then lay us, griefless, Together down, together down.

MY LOVE.

My Love is true and tender,
Her eyes are rich with rest;
Her hair of dappled splendor,
The color I love best;

So sweet, so gay, so odorous warm,
She nestles here, heart-high,
A bounteous aspect, beauteous form,
But just a wee bit sly.

My Love is no light dreamer,
A-floating with the foam;
But a brave life-sea swimmer,

With footing found in home.
My winsome wife, she 's bright without,
And beautiful within;

But I would not say quite without
The least wee touch of sin.

My Love is not an angel

In one or two small things; But just a wifely woman With other wants than wings. You have some little leaven Of earth, you darling dear! If you were fit for heaven, You might not nestle here.

SONG.

LIKE leaves from Autumn's bough, Old Friend, Our ripest hopes depart;

There's little left us now, Old Friend,

To cheer the patriot's heart.
The altars where we knelt, Old Friend,
Grow desolate and cold,

And faint is the faith we felt, Old Friend,
I' the valiant days of old.

In bloody shrouds they sleep, Old Friend,
Who could not live as slaves:

The living only weep, Old Friend,
Above their martyrs' graves!
Freedom hath many a wound, Old Friend,
And, ringed by hounds of hell,
She wraps her purple round, Old Friend,
To fall as Cæsar fell.