CHRISTMAS HYMN. BRIGHTEST and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid! Cold on His cradle the dew-drops are shining, Low lies his head with the beast of the stall; Angels adore Him in slumber reclining, Maker and Monarch and Saviour of all! Say, shall we yield Him, in costly devotion, Vainly we offer each ample oblation; Vainly with gifts would His favour secure : Richer by far is the heart's adoration: Dearer to God are the prayers of the poor. Brightest and best of the sons of the morning! Dawn on our darkness and lend us Thine aid! Star of the East, the horizon adorning, Guide where our infant Redeemer is laid. THE WIDOW OF NAIN. WA AKE not, O mother! sounds of lamentation! Weep not, O widow! weep not hopelessly! Strong is His arm, the Bringer of Salvation, Strong is the Word of God to succour thee! Bear forth the cold corpse, slowly, slowly bear him: Hide his pale features with the sable pall : Chide not the sad one wildly weeping near him: Widow'd and childless, she has lost her all! Why pause the mourners? Who forbids our weeping? Who the dark pomp of sorrow has delay'd? Set down the bier, he is not dead but sleeping! Young man, arise!"-He spake, and was obey'd! Change, then, O sad one! grief to exultation: Worship and fall before Messiah's knee. Strong was His arm, the Bringer of Salvation; Strong was the Word of God to succour thee! THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE. THOU art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; Thy Saviour has pass'd through its portal before thee, And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom! Thou art gone to the grave! we no longer behold thee, Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of Mercy are spread to enfold thee, And sinners may die, for the SINLESS has died! Thou art gone to the grave! and, its mansion forsaking, Perchance thy weak spirit in fear linger'd long; But the mild rays of Paradise beam'd on thy waking, And the sound which thou heardst was he seraphim's song! Thou art gone to the grave! but we will not deplore thee, Whose God was thy rarsem, thy guardian and guide; He gave thee, He took thee, and He will restore thee, And death has no sting, for the Saviour has died. SONG. THERE is, they say, a secret well, In Ardennes' forest gray, Whose waters boast a numbing spell, That memory must obey. Who tastes the rill so cool and calm In passion's wild distress, Their breasts imbibe the sullen balm Of deep forgetfulness. And many a maid has sought the grove, But few have borne to lose the love No! by these tears, whose ceaseless smat That never told its pain. By all the walks that once were dear, By every dream of hope gone by FAREWELL. WHEN eyes are beaming What never tongue might tell; When tears are streaming From their crystal cell, When hands are link'd that dread to part Of them that bid farewell! When hope is chidden That fain of bliss would tell, In the breast to dwell, Of those that bid farewell! MISSIONARY HYMN. FROM Greenland's icy mountains, From India's coral strand, Where Afric's sunny fountains Roll down their golden sand; From many an ancient river, From many a palmy plain, They call us to deliver Their land from error's chain! What though the spicy breezes The gifts of God are strown, Bows down to wood and stone! Can we, whose souls are lighted With wisdom from on high, Can we to men benighted The lamp of life deny? Salvation! oh, Salvation! The joyful sound proclaim, Till each remotest nation Has learn'd Messiah's name! Waft, waft, ye winds his story, And you, ye waters, roll, Till like a sea of glory, It spreads from pole to pole! Till o'er our ransom'd nature, The Lamb for sinners slain, Redeemer, King, Creator, In bliss returns to reign! THE BRITISH BOW. YE spirits of our fathers, The hardy, bold, and free, Who chased o'er Cressy's gory field A fourfold enemy! From us who love your sylvan game Who so bravely bent the bow. "Twas merry then in England, (Our ancient records tell.) With Robin Hood and Little John Who dwelt by down and dell: And yet we love the bold outlaw Who braved a tyrant foe, Whose cheer was the deer, And his only friend the bow! 'Twas merry then in England In autumn's dewy morn, When echo started from her hill To hear the bugle-horn. And beauty, mirth, and warrior worth In garb of green did go The shade to invade With the arrow and the bow. Ye spirits of our fathers! Among your children yet are found "Tis merry yet in O.d England, VERSES TO MRS. HEBER. If thou wert by my side, my love, If thou, my love, wert by my side, How gayly would our pinnace glide I miss thee at the dawning gray, I miss thee when by Gunga's stream But most beneath the lamp's pale beam I spread my books, my pencil try, But when of morn and eve the star I feel, though thou art distant far, Then on! then on! where duty leads, That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates, For sweet the bliss us both awaits By yonder western main. Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bight, they say But ne'er were hearts so light and gay ALLAN CUNNINGHAM (Born 1784-Died 1843). THE father and grandfather of the late ALLAN CUNNINGHAM were farmers, in Blackwood, a place of much natural beauty, near Dumfries, in Scotland, where the poet was born on the seventh of December, 1784. When eleven years of age, he was taken from the parish school and apprenticed to his elder brother, a stone mason, with whom he remained until he became a skilful workman. The practical knowledge thus acquired was of much value to him when in later years he wrote his "Lives of British Architects," a work as distinguished for judicious criticism as for accuracy of statement and the attractive simplicity of its style. The first publications of CUNNINGHAM were several lyrical pieces in CROMEK'S "Remains of Nithsdale and Galloway Song," a volume of which they constituted the most pleasing contents. They attracted the attention of Dr. PERCY, who declared them to be too good for antiques; they were praised by ScorT; and their popularity, surprising as much as it gratified the author, led to an acknowledgment of their paternity. In 1810 CUNNINGHAM finally abandoned the trowel for the pen, and went to London. An early and judicious marriage secured to him a quiet and happy home. From the suffering experienced by so many men of genius, the excitements and the ruin of HOOK, MAGINN, and others among his contemporaries, he was thus saved. His moral worth was equal to his intellectual accomplishments, and he won the success which in nearly all instances attends upon talents united with industry and integrity. Among his earliest publications were "Mark Macrabin, or the Covenanters," a prose story of considerable power printed in “Blackwood,” and a series of tales and traditions in the London Magazine. These, and SIR WALTER SCOTT says, in his introductory epistle to" The Fortunes of Nigel," "With a popular impress, people would read and admire the beauties of Allan-as it is, they may perhaps only note his defects-or, what is worse, not note him at all. But never mind them, honest Allan; you are a credit to Caledonia for all that. There cre some lyrical effusions of his, too, which you would do well to read, Captain. 'It's hame, and it's hame,' equal to BURNS." his "Paul Jones" and "Sir Michael Scott," we have never seen, but we believe them to be inferior to his more recent novels. At the end of four years from the commencement of his life in the metropolis, CUNNINGHAM entered the studio of Sir FRANCIS CHANTRY, where he remained until the death of that eminent sculptor, who is supposed to have been much indebted to him for the marks of imagination and fancy which appear in his works. He still found time for literary pursuits, and in a short period wrote several prose fictions, and "Sir Marmaduke Maxwell," a dramatic poem, the scenery and characters of which belong to his native district. In 1825 he published his "Scottish Song," in which are preserved the finest lyrics of his native country, with copious traditional and critical notes; in 1831, "Lives of Eminent Painters and Sculptors," which has been reprinted in Harpers' Family Library, and the "Lives of British Architects," to which we have before alluded. In 1832 he wrote "The Maid of Elvar," the last and the best of his larger poems. It is a rural epic, smoothly versified, and containing many pleasing pictures of scenery and life. Among his more recent works were "Lord Roldan," a novel, "The Life and Land of Burns," and "Memoirs of Sir David Wilkie," the last of which he finished but two days before his own death, which occurred on the twenty-ninth of October, 1843. Cunningham commenced many years ago, "The Lives of the Poets from Chaucer to Coleridge," a work which he was well qua lified to write, but it was never finished. In the "Life and Land of Burns,” is a fine portrait of "Honest Allan," as ScoTT was wont to call him, exhibiting in vigorous proportions, penetrating eyes, and countenance expressive of power and gentleness, the most striking qualities of the man. He is pre sented in the tartan, symboling that love of Scotland which he ever cherished, and which is also shown in the selection of the subjects of his works, in their style and in their spirit. A WET SHEET AND A FLOWING SEA. A WET sheet and a flowing sea, A wind that follows fast, And fills the white and rustling sail, And bends the gallant mast: Away the good ship flies, and leaves Oh for a soft and gentle wind! But give to me the snoring breeze, And white waves heaving high: There's tempest in yon horn'd moon, GENTLE HUGH HERRIES. Go seek in the wild glen Where curlews are calling; Go seek when the clear stars Shine down without number, For there shall ye find him My true love in slumber. They sought in the wild glenThe glen was forsaken; They sought on the mountain, 'Mang lang lady-bracken; And sore, sore they hunted My true love to find him, Yon green hill I'll give thee, This hold traitor's lying- Fair princedom the heiress, I clasp'd and I wound him; For sharp smites the sword of They rein'd their proud war-sterda, 'Mang banks of blue-berries, THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG. Oa! my love's like the steadfast sun, As when, beneath Arbigland tree, We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the noon Or linger'd mid the falling dew, Though I see smiling at thy feet I think the wedded wife of mine IT'S HAME AND IT'S HAME. Ir's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! There's an eye that ever weeps, and a fair face will be fain, As I pass through Annan Water, with my bonnie bands again; When the flower is in the bud, and the leaf upon the tree, The lark shall sing me hame in my ain countree. It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! The green leaf of loyalty's beginning for to fa', The bonnie white rose it is withering and a', But I'll water 't with the blood of usurping tyrannie, And green it will grow in my ain countree. It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! There's nought now from ruin my country can save But the keys of kind heaven to open the grave, That all the noble martyrs who died for loyaltie May rise again and fight for their ain countree. It's hame and it's hame, hame fain would I be, O hame, hame, hame to my ain countree! The great now are gane, a' who ventured to save; The new green grass is growing aboon their bloody grave; But the sun through the mirk blinks blythe in my e'e, I'll shine on ye yet in your ain countree. AWAKE, MY LOVE! AWAKE my love! cre morning's ray THE SHEPHERD SEEKS HIS GLOWING HEARTH. THE shepherd seeks his glowing hearth, And Ae's wild waters swelling, Through the dark air of DecemberThy father's dreaming o'er his wealth, Thy mother's in her chamber. Now is the time for talk, iny love, Soft sighing, mutual wishing, Heart-throbbings, interchange of vows, Words breathed mid holy kissing; All worldly maxims, wise men's rules, My raptured soul disdaineth; For with my love the world is lost And all the world containeth. MY AIN COUNTREE. The sun rises bright in France, And fair sets he; But he has tint the blythe blink he had In my ain countree. Oh! gladness comes to many, But sorrow comes to me, As I look o'er the wide ocean To my ain countree. Oh! it's not my ain ruin That saddens aye my e'e, The bud comes back to summer, Which will be leal to me; |