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Such was the sight their wond'ring eyes
Who reined their coursers back,
Had wandered from their track. Back each man reined his pawing steed, And lighted down, as if agreed,
In silence at his side;
And there, uncovered all, they stood –
That day for mortal pride :
And central in the ring,
REV. G. CRABBE.
THE ANGELS' SONG,
It came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
To touch their harps of gold :
From heaven's all-gracious King;”
To hear the angels sing.
With peaceful wings unfurled;
O'er all the weary world : Above its sad and lowly plains
They bend on heavenly wing,
The blessed angels sing.
The world has suffered long-
Two thousand years of wrong;
And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring :
And hear the angels sing !
Whose forms are bending low,
With painful steps and slow;
Come swiftly on the wing :
And hear the angels sing !
By prophet-bards foretold,
Comes round the age of gold;
Its ancient splendours fling,
E. H. SEARS.
MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark,
Nature herself, it seemed, would raise On a breeze from the northward free; A minster to her Maker's praise ! So shoots through the morning sky the Not for a meaner use ascend lark,
Her columns, or her arches bend ; Or the swan through the summer sea. Nor of a theme less solemn tells The shores of Mull on the eastward lay, That mighty surge that ebbs and swells, And Ulva dark, and Colonsay,
And still, between each awful pause, And all the group of islets gay
From the high vault an answer draws, That guard famed Staffa round.
In varied tone prolonged and high, Then all unknown its columns rose, That mocks the organ's melody. Where dark and undisturbed repose
Nor doth its entrance front in vain The cormorant had found;
To old Iona's holy fane, And the shy seal had quiet home,
That Nature's voice might seem to say, And weltered in that wondrous dome, Well hast thou done, frail child of clay! Where, as to shame the temples decked Thy humble powers that stately shrine By skill of earthly architect,
Tasked high, and hard-but witness mine."
Sir WALTER SCOTT.
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER.
A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, “ Boatman, do not tarry! And I'll give thee a silver pound,
To row us o'er the ferry."“Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle,
This dark and stormy water?”"O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,
And this, Lord Ullin's daughter. And fast before her father's men
Three days we've fled together; For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather. His horsemen hard behind us ride;
Should they our steps discover, Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?”– Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
“I'll go, my chief —I'm ready : It is not for your silver bright,
But for your winsome lady: And, by my word ! the bonny bird
In danger shall not tarry;
I'll row you o'er the ferry.”.
The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven, each face
Grew dark as they were speaking.
But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer, Adown the glen rode armed men,
Their trampling sounded nearer. “O haste thee, haste !" the lady cries,
Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,
But not an angry father.”The boat has left a stormy land,
A stormy sea before her,When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.
Of waters fast prevailing :
His wrath was changed to wailing.
His child he did discover;-- [shade One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover. “Come back! come back !” he cried in
Across this stormy water; [grief, And I'll forgive your Highland chief,
My daughter! oh, my daughter!”— 'Twas vain: the loud waves lashed the
Return or aid preventing ;- (shore, The waters wild went o'er his child, And he was left lamenting.
ODE TO THE CUCKOO.
Starts the new voice of spring to hcar,
And imitates the lay.
What time the pea puts on the bloom
Thou fliest thy vocal vale,
Another spring to hail.
HAIL, beauteous stranger of the grove!
Thou messenger of spring!
And woods thy welcome sing.
Thy certain voice we hear;
Or mark the rolling year?
I hail the time of flowers,
From birds among the bowers.
Sweet bird ! thy bower is ever green,
Thy sky is ever clear;
No winter in thy year!
We'd make, with joyful wing,
AN ENGLISH CHRISTMAS HOME.
A loun 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, But there must be some hallowed bloom to deeper sound
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,
red wine, or nut brown foam, And drink to kindly voices in an English And drink to honest hearts within an Christmas home.
English Christmas home.
SEE, in yon chamber's dim recesses, That bosom, which seems nigh the bursting, A lady kneels with loosened tresses; Yon child was suckled, nestled, nurst in, A lovely creature, lowly kneeling,
That heart, - to God outpoured, and With mournful eyes, and brow of feeling; offered, One hand before her meekly spreading, Death, for her son, hath three times The other back her ringlets shedding,
suffered. That aye come gushing down betwixt Oh ! of all mortal pangs, there's nought Her eyes and that on which they're fixed. So dreadful as the death of thought! She shudders! See! Hear how she's sighing! He wakes - he smiles — looks up- and Can one so young, so fair, be dying?
there Is she some favourite saint imploring? He rises-God hath heard her prayer ! Confessing shame, or God adoring?
Whilst she, 'twixt sobbing, tears, and Her lustrous, dark eyes, wild are straying; shrieking, She bows her head;-lo! she is praying. Clasps him with heart too big for speaking. See ! see! before her, slumbering mild, She holds him up to God. And now, A fair-haired and a faded child.
Proud boastful man! what canst thou do? He is her son ;- could any other
In all thy miracles, there's nought Look with those rapt looks, save a mother? | Like that a mother's prayers have wrought.