SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. THIS writer, a man of great and varied talents, was born in 1772, and died in 1834. His first publication, called The Watchman, produced at an early age, was unsuccessful, but it was followed by poems and several prose works which are justly held in high estimation, and have placed their author among the most eminent writers of the age. Whether in poetry or prose, they are written with much energy of feeling and grace of expression, and their sentiments are those of a learned man and a devout Christian. A CHRISTMAS CAROL. THE shepherds went their hasty way, Where the Virgin-Mother lay: And now they checked their eager tread, They told her how a glorious light, Streaming from a heavenly throng, While sweeter than a mother's song, And closer still the babe she pressed; The milk rushed faster to her breast: Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn: Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, Poor, simple, and of low estate; Oh! why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory? And is not war a youthful king, A stately hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring; Him earth's majestic monarchs hail! Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. "Tell this in some more courtly scene, To maids and youths in robes of state! I am a woman poor and mean, And therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, "A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, He kills the sire and starves the son, Steals all his widow's toil had won; "Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease; I'm poor, and of a low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace! Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn; Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born!" MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY. BORN unto God in Christin Christ, my all! What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather Than forfeit that blest name, by which we call The Holy One, the Almighty God, our Father! The heir of heaven, henceforth I dread not death: VOL. II. 11 Of the true life. Let sea, and earth, and sky, To end my life, who can but end its woe. FELICIA HEMANS. THIS lady, who died at Dublin in 1835, is favourably known as the authoress of many poetical pieces of great merit, the pure and graceful productions of a Christian gentlewoman. It is to be lamented that she did not do justice to her talents, by exerting them on some work of importance, as what she has left behind her, though excellent of their kind, show that she was capable of greater things. THE HEBREW MOTHER. THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain, Unto the temple service. By the hand Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think So passed they on O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that she might rest; As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount And softly parting clusters of jet curls At last the Fane was reached, The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hushed Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm "Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me, And silver cords again to earth have won me, "How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side; And I, in joyous pride, By every place of flowers my course delaying, Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair, "And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day Turned from its door away, While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted, I languish for thy voice, which past me still, Went like a singing rill? "Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me, With the full water-urn! Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me, And watch for thy dear sake. "And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee, Wilt thou not vainly spread Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee, A cry which none shall hear? "What have I said, my child? will He not hear thee, Will He not guard thy rest, And in the hush of holy midnight near thee, "I give thee to thy God! the God that gave thee, And precious as thou art, And pure as dew of Hermon, HE shall have thee, And thou shalt be His child. "Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me, Yearning for thy sweet looks; But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me! The Rock of Strength-farewell!" |