The venerable poet, James Montgomery, bears strong testimony to Elliott's poetic talent: "I am," says he, "quite willing to hazard my critical credit, by avowing my persuasion, that in originality, power, and even beauty, when he chose to be beautiful, he might have measured heads beside Byron in tremendous energy, Crabbe in graphic description, and Coleridge in effusions of domestic tenderness, while in intense sympathy with the poor, in whatever he deemed their wrongs or their sufferings, he exceeded them all-and perhaps everybody else among contemporaries-in prose or verse. He was, in a transcendental sense, the poet of the poor, whom, if not always wisely, I, at least, dare not say he loved too well. His personal character, his fortunes, and his genius would require, as they deserve, a full investigation, as furnishing an extraordinary study of human nature."

In the following singular piece, we have a key to many of the Rhymer's rhymes. It is the complaint of a heart breaking for want of human sympathy, and taking hold, in the yearnings of its tender nature, upon household pets where there are no home companions :

POOR ANDREW.

The loving poor!-So envy calls
The ever-toiling poor;

But oh! I choke, my heart grows faint,

When I approach my door!

Behind it there are living things,

Whose silent frontlets say

They'd rather see me out than in

Feet foremost borne away!

My heart grows sick when home I come-
May God the thought forgive!

If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

My dog and cat, when I come home,
Run out to welcome me-

She mewing, with her tail on end,
While wagging his comes he.
They listen for my homeward steps,

My smother'd sob they hear,

When down my heart sinks, deathly down,
Because my home is near.

My heart grows faint when home I come-
May God the thought forgive!

If 'twere not for my dog and cat,

I think I could not live.

I'd rather be a happy bird,

Than, scorn'd and loathed, a king;
But man should live while for him lives
The meanest loving thing.

Thou busy bee! how canst thou choose
So far and wide to roam?

Oh, blessed bee! thy glad wings say
Thou hast a happy home!

But I, when I come home-O God!
Wilt thou the thought forgive?
If 'twere not for my dog and cat,
I think I could not live.

Why come they not? They do not come
My breaking heart to meet!

A heavier darkness on me falls-
I cannot lift my feet.

Oh, yes, they come !-they never fail
To listen for my sighs;

My poor heart brightens when it meets
The sunshine of their eyes.

Again they come to meet me-God!
Wilt thou the thought forgive?

If 'twere not for my dog and cat,
I think I could not live.

This heart is like a churchyard stone;
My home is comfort's grave;

My playful cat and honest dog

Are all the friends I have;

And yet my house is fill'd with friends-
But foes they seem, and are.

What makes them hostile? IGNORANCE;
Then let me not despair.

But oh! I sigh when home I come-
May God the thought forgive!
If 'twere not for my dog and cat,
I think I could not live.

In the following piece, we see the hostility of ignorance overcome. The cat and dog are replaced by human beings, and the home of taste is the home of happiness:

Oh, give him taste! it is the link
Which binds us to the skies-
A bridge of rainbows thrown across
The gulf of tears and sighs!
Or like a widower's little one-
An angel in a child-

That leads him to her mother's chair,
And shows him how she smiled.

SATURDAY.

To-morrow will be Sunday, Ann-
Get up, my child, with me ;
Thy father rose at four o'clock
To toil for me and thee.

The fine folks use the plate he makes,
And praise it when they dine;
For John has taste-so we'll be neat,
Although we can't be fine.

Then let us shake the carpet well,
And wash and scour the floor,
And hang the weather-glass he made
Beside the cupboard-door.

And polish thou the grate, my love;
I'll mend the sofa arm;

The autumn winds blow damp and chill;
And John loves to be warm.

And bring the new white curtain out,
And string the pink tape on-
Mechanics should be neat and clean;
And I'll take heed for John.

And brush the little table, child,
And fetch the ancient books-
John loves to read, and when he reads,
How like a king he looks!

And fill the music-glasses up

With water fresh and clear;

To-morrow, when he sings and plays,

The street will stop to hear.

And throw the dead flowers from the vase,

And rub it till it glows;

For in the leafless garden yet

He'll find a winter rose.

And lichen from the wood he'll bring,

And mosses from the dell;

And from the shelter'd stubble-field

The scarlet pimpernell.

"All this preparation is made for the father of the family, the poor mechanic, who has got to the end of his week of toil, and is coming-home! not to look like a king, but to be a king for two nights and a day. Do we say the poor mechanic? Why, there is no king in Europe so rich! He has earned his otium cum dignitate, (which they have not;) it is his right, not inherited from dead men, but the achievement of his own power and will; and for the bows and grimaces and lip-service of hollow courtiers, he is surrounded by loving looks, and sympathizing hearts, and willing hands."

RUB OR RUST.

Idler, why lie down to die?

Better rub than rust.

Hark! the lark sings in the sky-
"Die when die thou must!
Day is waking, leaves are shaking,
Better rub than rust."

In the grave there's sleep enough-
"Better rub than rust:

Death, perhaps, is hunger-proof,
Die when die thou must;

Men are mowing, breezes blowing,
Better rub than rust."

He who will not work shall want;
Naught for naught is just-
Won't do, must do, when he can't;
"Better rub than rust.

Bees are flying, sloth is dying,
Better rub than rust."

THE PRESS.

God said "Let there be light!"
Grim darkness felt his might,
And fled away;

Then startled seas and mountains cold
Shone forth, all bright in blue and gold,
And cried 'Tis day! 'tis day!"

"Hail, holy light!" exclaim'd

The thunderous cloud that flamed
O'er daisies white;

And lo! the rose, in crimson dress'd,

Lean'd sweetly on the lily's breast;

And, blushing, murmur'd-" Light!"

Then was the skylark born;
Then rose the embattled corn;
Then floods of praise
Flow'd o'er the sunny hills of noon;
And then, in stillest night, the moon
Pour'd forth her pensive lays.
Lo, heaven's bright bow is glad!
Lo, trees and flowers, all clad

In glory, bloom!

And shall the mortal sons of God
Be senseless as the trodden clod,
And darker than the tomb ?
No, by the mind of man!
By the swart artisan!

By God, our sire!

Our souls have holy light within;
And every form of grief and sin
Shall see and feel its fire.

By earth, and hell, and heaven,
The shroud of souls is riven!
Mind, mind alone

Is light, and hope, and life, and power!
Earth's deepest night, from this bless'd hour,
The night of minds, is gone!
"The Press!" all lands shall sing;
The Press, the Press we bring,
All lands to bless:

Oh, pallid Want! Oh, Labor stark!
Behold we bring the second ark!

The Press! the Press! the Press!

FOREST WORSHIP.

Within the sun-lit forest,

Our roof the bright blue sky,

Where fountains flow, and wild flowers blow,
We lift our hearts on high;

Beneath the frown of wicked men

Our country's strength is bowing; But, thanks to God, they can't prevent The lone wild flowers from blowing!

High, high above the tree-tops,

The lark is soaring free;

Where streams the light through broken clouds His speckled breast I see;

Beneath the might of wicked men

The poor man's worth is dying;
But, thank'd be God, in spite of them,
The lark still warbles flying!

The preacher prays, "Lord, bless us!"
"Lord, bless us!" echo cries;
"Amen!" the breezes murmur low;
"Amen!" the rill replies:

The ceaseless toil of woe-worn hearts
The proud with pangs are paying;
But here, O God of earth and heaven!
The humble heart is praying!

How softly in the pauses

Of song re-echoed wide,

The cushat's coo, the linnet's lay,

O'er rill and river glide!