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Such was the sight their wond'ring eyes Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,

Who reined their coursers back, Just as they found the long astray, Who, in the heat of chase that day,

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 —
It was a wholesome sight and good
That day for mortal pride:

For of the noblest of the land
Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band;
And central in the ring,

By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed King!


Ir came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold :
"Peace to the earth, goodwill to men
From heaven's all-gracious King; "-
The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven sky they come
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats

O'er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on heavenly wing, And ever o'er its Babel sounds

The blessed angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long-
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;

And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring :
Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing:
Oh! rest beside the weary road,

And hear the angels sing!

For lo the days are hastening on,
By prophet-bards foretold,
When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When Peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendours fling,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing!


MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark,


On a breeze from the northward free; So shoots through the morning sky the lark,

Or the swan through the summer sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and Colonsay,
And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round.
Then all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose
The cormorant had found;
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weltered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,

Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise!
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,

That Nature's voice might seem to say,
"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high, and hard-but witness mine."


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; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, 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.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and
His child he did discover;- [shade
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.

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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.

But there must be a melody of purer, deeper sound

A rich key-note, whose echo runs through all the music round:

pledging draughts are poured.

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

All, all must bring toward the wreath some 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
Look with those rapt looks, save a mother?

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

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
Like that a mother's prayers have wrought.

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