Yet ftay before thou dare

To join that feftal throng; Liften and mark what gentle air

Firft ftirr'd the tide of fong;

'Tis not "the Saviour born in David's home, "To whom for power and health obedient worlds fhould come:".

'Tis not,

"the Chrift the Lord:"

With fix'd adoring look

The choir of Angels caught the word,

Nor yet their filence broke:

But when they heard the fign, where Christ should be, In fudden light they fhone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapp'd in His swaddling bands,

And in His manger laid,

The hope and glory of all lands

Is come to the world's aid:

No peaceful home upon His cradle smil❜d,

Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.

But where Thou dwelleft, Lord,
No other thought should be,
Once duly welcom❜d and ador'd,

How fhould I part with Thee?

Bethlehem muft lofe Thee foon, but Thou wilt

grace

The fingle heart to be Thy fure abiding place.

Thee, on the bofom laid
Of a pure virgin mind,
In quiet ever, and in shade,

Shepherd and fage may find;

They, who have bow'd untaught to Nature's sway, And they, who follow Truth along her star-pav'd way.

The pastoral spirits first

Approach Thee, Babe divine,

For they in lowly thoughts are nurs’d,

Meet for Thy lowly shrine:

Sooner than they should miss where Thou doft dwell, Angels from Heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still, as the day comes round

For Thee to be reveal'd,

By wakeful fhepherds Thou art found,

Abiding in the field.

All through the wintry heaven and chill night air, In mufic and in light Thou dawneft on their prayer.

O faint not ye for fear—

What though your wandering fheep,

Reckless of what they fee and hear,

Lie loft in wilful fleep?

High Heaven in mercy to your

fad annoy

Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.

Think on th' eternal home,

The Saviour left for you;

Think on the Lord moft holy, come
To dwell with hearts untrue :

So fhall ye tread untir'd His pastoral ways,
And in the darkness fing your carol of high praise.

John Keble.

V.

"A Christmas Carol."

THE Shepherds went their hafty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:

And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,
A Mother's fong the Virgin-Mother fung.

They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them fhone, fufpending night!

While fweeter than a Mother's fong,
Bleft Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

She liftened to the tale divine,

And closer still the Babe fhe pressed : And while fhe cried, the Babe is mine! The milk rushed fafter to her breaft:

Joy rofe within her, like a fummer's morn ;

Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is born.

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, fimple, and of low estate!
That Strife fhould vanish, Battle cease,

O why should this thy foul elate?

Sweet Mufic's loudest note, the Poet's story,Did'st 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-confeffing figh.

"Tell this in fome more courtly scene,

"To maids and youths in robes of state! and mean,

"I am a woman poor

"And therefore is my Soul elate. "War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, "That from the aged Father tears his Child!

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,

"He kills the Sire and ftarves the Son; "The Hufband kills, and from her board "Steals all his Widow's toil had won;

Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away

Allfafety from the Night, all comfort from the Day.

"Then wifely is my foul elate,

"That Strife fhould vanish, Battle cease:

"I'm poor and of a low estate,

66

"The Mother of the Prince of Peace.

Joy rifes in me, like a summer's morn:

"Peace, Peace on Earth, the Prince of Peace is born." Samuel T. Coleridge.

VI.

"To God The Sonne."

REATE Prynce of heaven! begotten of

that Kyng

Who rules the kyndome that Himself dyd

make,

And of that virgyn-queene manne's shape did take,
Which from kynge Davyd's royal stock dyd sprynge;
No mervayle, though Thy byrth mayd angells fynge,
And angells dyttyes fhepehyrds pypes awake,
And kynges, lyke shepehyrds, humbled for Thy fake,
Kneele at Thy feete, and guyftes of homage brynge:
For heaven and earth, the hyghe and lowe estate
As partners of Thy byrth make æqual clayme;
Angells, because in heaven God Thee begatt,
Sheepehyrdes and kynges because Thy mother came
From pryncely race, and yet by povertye

Mayd glory fhyne in her humillitye.

Henry Conftable.