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AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS HOME.

A LOUD and laughing welcome to the merry | A bright and joyous welcome to the berries Christmas bells! and the leaves All hail with happy gladness to the well- That hang about our household walls in known chant that swells! dark and rustling sheaves! We list the pealing anthem chord, we hear Up with the holly and the bay, set laurel the midnight strain, on the board, And love the tidings that proclaim old And let the mistletoe look down while Christmas back again. pledging draughts are poured.

But there must be a melody of purer, deeper sound

But there must be some hallowed bloom to garland with the rest;

A rich key-note, whose echo runs through All, all must bring toward the wreath some all the music round: flowers of the breast.

Let kindly voices ring beneath low roof and For though green boughs may thickly grace palace dome, low roof and palace dome, For those alone are carol chimes that bless Warm hearts alone will truly serve to deck a Christmas home. a Christmas home.

Then fill once more, from Bounty's store, Then fill once more, from Bounty's store, red wine, or nut brown foam, And drink to kindly voices in an English

Christmas home.

red wine, or nut brown foam, And drink to honest hearts within an English Christmas home.

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SEE, in yon chamber's dim recesses,
A lady kneels with loosened tresses;
A lovely creature, lowly kneeling,
With mournful eyes, and brow of feeling;
One hand before her meekly spreading,
The other back her ringlets shedding,
That aye come gushing down betwixt
Her eyes and that on which they're fixed.
She shudders! See! Hear how she's sighing!
Can one so young, so fair, be dying?
Is she some favourite saint imploring?
Confessing shame, or God adoring?
Her lustrous, dark eyes, wild are straying;
She bows her head;-lo! she is praying.
See! see! before her, slumbering mild,
A fair-haired and a faded child.
He is her son;- could any other

PRAYING.

That bosom, which seems nigh the bursting, Yon child was suckled, nestled, nurst in, That heart, -to God outpoured, and offered,

Death, for her son, hath three times suffered.

Oh! of all mortal pangs, there's nought
So dreadful as the death of thought!
He wakes- he smiles-looks up-and
there

He rises-God hath heard her prayer! Whilst she, 'twixt sobbing, tears, and shrieking,

Clasps him with heart too big for speaking. She holds him up to God. And now, Proud boastful man! what canst thou do? In all thy miracles, there's nought

Look with those rapt looks, save a mother? Like that a mother's prayers have wrought.

A. CUNNINGHAM.

THE CHILD AND THE DEW-DROPS.

"O father, dear father, why pass they away, The dew-drops that sparkled at dawning of day

That glittered like stars by the light of the moon;

Oh, why are those dew-drops dissolving so soon?

Does the sun, in his wrath, chase their

brightness away,

As though nothing that's lovely might live for a day?

The moonlight has faded, the flowers still remain,

But the dew has dried out of their petals again."—

Then are we not taught by each beautiful ray,

To mourn not for beauty, though fleeting away?

For though youth of its brightness and beauty be riven,

All that withers on earth blooms more brightly in heaven."

Alas for the father! how little knew he The words he had spoken prophetic could be;

That the beautiful child, the bright star of his day,

Was e'en then like the dew-drops- dissolving away.

skies

"My child," said the father, "look up to Oh, sad was the father, when, lo! in the the skies, Behold yon bright rainbow, those beautiful The rainbow again spread its beauteous dyes; dyes; There, there are the dew-drops in glory And then he remembered the maxims he'd reset,― given, 'Mid the jewels of heaven they are glittering And thought of his child and the dewyet! drops-in heaven.

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ELLEN MORE.

come forth With dismal thoughts of storm and wreck Upon some savage coast;

SWEET Ellen More," said I,
Beneath the sunny sky;
Why stand you musing all alone,
With such an anxious eye?

What is it, child, that aileth you?"

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And thus she made reply:

:

But morn and eve we prayed to Heaven
That he might not be lost.

And when the pleasant spring came on,
And fields again were green,

The fields are green, the skies are bright, He sent a letter full of news
The leaves are on the tree,
Of the wonders he had seen;

And 'mong the sweet flowers of the thyme Praying us to think him dutiful,
Far flies the honey-bee;

And the lark hath sung since morning

prime,

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As he afore had been.

The tidings that came next were from
A sailor old and gray,

Who saw his ship at anchor lie

In the harbour at Bombay;

But he said my brother pined for home,
And wished he were away.

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