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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,
Odours of Edom, and offerings divine?
Gems of the mountain and pearls of the ocean,
Myrrh from the forest or gold from the mine?

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,
And bow'd beside the wave;

But few have borne to lose the love
That wore them to the grave.

No! by these tears, whose ceaseless smat
My reason chides in vain;
By all the secret of a heart

That never told its pain.

By all the walks that once were dear,
Beneath the green-wood bough;
By all the songs that soothed his ear
Who will not listen now.

By every dream of hope gone by
That haunts my slumber yet,—
A love-sick heart may long to die,
But never to forget!

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
And heart is met by throbbing heart,
Oh bitter, bitter is the smart,

Of them that bid farewell!

When hope is chidden

That fain of bliss would tell,
And love forbidden

In the breast to dwell,
When, fetter'd by a viewless chain
We turn and gaze and turn again,
Oh, death were nercy to the pain

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
Blow soft o'er Ceylon's isle,
Though every prospect pleases,
And only man is vite:
In vain with lavish kindness

The gifts of God are strown,
The heathen in his blindness

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
To you the song shall flow,
To the fame of your name

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!
Extend to us your care,

Among your children yet are found
The valiant and the fair!

"Tis merry yet in O.d England,
Full well her archers know,
And shame on their name
Who despise the British bow.

VERSES TO MRS. HEBER.

If thou wert by my side, my love,
How fast would evening fail
In green Bengala's palmy grove,
Listening the nightingale!

If thou, my love, wert by my side,
My babies at my knee,

How gayly would our pinnace glide
O'er Gunga's mimic sea!

I miss thee at the dawning gray,
When, on our deck reclined,
In careless ease my limbs I lay
And woo the cooler wind.

I miss thee when by Gunga's stream
My twilight steps I guide,

But most beneath the lamp's pale beam
I miss thee from my side.

I spread my books, my pencil try,
The lingering noon to cheer,
But miss thy kind approving eye,
Thy meek attentive ear.

But when of morn and eve the star
Beholds me on my knee,

I feel, though thou art distant far,
Thy prayers ascend for me.

Then on! then on! where duty leads,
My course be onward still,
J'er broad Hindostan's sultry mead,
O'er bleak Almorah's hill.

That course, nor Delhi's kingly gates,
Nor wild Malwah detain;

For sweet the bliss us both awaits

By yonder western main.

Thy towers, Bombay, gleam bight, they say
Across the dark blue sea;

But ne'er were hearts so light and gay
As the shall meet in thee

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:
And bends the gallant mast, my boys,
While, like the eagle free,

Away the good ship flies, and leaves
Old England on the lee.

Oh for a soft and gentle wind!
I heard a fair one cry;

But give to me the snoring breeze,

And white waves heaving high:
And white waves heaving high, my boys,
The good ship tight and free,—
The world of waters is our home,
And merry men are we.

There's tempest in yon horn'd moon,
And lightning in yon cloud;
And hark! the music, mariners,
The wind is piping loud:
The wind is piping loud, my boys,
The lightning flashing free,-
While the hollow oak our palace is,
Our heritage the sea.

GENTLE HUGH HERRIES.

Go seek in the wild glen
Where streamlets are falling,
Go seek on the lone hill

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,
With the strong bands of iron
To fetter and bind him.

Yon green hill I'll give thee,
Where the falcon is flying,
To show me the den where

This hold traitor's lying-
Oh make me of Nithsdale's

Fair princedom the heiress,
Is that worth one smile of
My gentle Hugh Herries?
The white bread, the sweet milk,
And ripe fruits, I found him,
And safe in my fond arms

I clasp'd and I wound him;
I warn you go not where
My true lover tarries,

For sharp smites the sword of
My gentle Hugh Herries.

They rein'd their proud war-sterda,
Away they went sweeping,
And behind them dames wail'd, and
Fair maidens went weeping;
But deep in yon wild glen,

'Mang banks of blue-berries,
I dwell with my loved one,
My gentle Hugh Herries

THE POET'S BRIDAL-DAY SONG.

Oa! my love's like the steadfast sun,
Or streams that deepen as they run:
Nor hoary hairs, nor forty years,
Nor moments between sighs and fears;
Nor nights of Lought, nor days of pain,
Nor dreams of glory dream'd in vain,—
Nor mirth, nor sweetest song which flows
To soberys and soften woes,
Can make my heart or fancy fice
One moment, my sweet wife, from thee.
Even while I muse, I see thee sit
In maiden bloom and matron wit;
Fair, gentle, as when first I sued
Ye seem, but of sedater mood:
Yet my heart leaps as fond for thee

As when, beneath Arbigland tree,

We stay'd and woo'd, and thought the noon
Set on the sea an hour too soon;

Or linger'd mid the falling dew,
When looks were fond, and words were few.

Though I see smiling at thy feet
Five sons and ae fair daughter sweet;
And time, and care, and birth-time woes
Have dimm'd thine eye, and touch'd thy rosc
To thee, and thoughts of thee, belong
All that charms me of tale or song;
When words come down like dews unsought
With gleams of deep enthusiast thought;
And fancy in her heaven flies free,-
They come, my love, they come from thee.
Oh, when more thought we gave of old
To silver than some give to gold,
'Twas sweet to sit and ponder o'er
What things should deck our humble bower'
"T was sweet to pull, in hope, with thee,
The golden fruit from fortune's tree;
And sweeter still, to choose and twine
A garland for these locks of thine;
A song-wreath which may grace my lean,
While rivers flow, and woods are green.
At times there come, as come there ought,
Grave moments of sedater thought,-
When fortune frowns, nor lends our night
One gleam of her inconstant light;
And hope, that decks the peasant's bower,
Shines like the rainbow through the shower:
Oh then I see, while seated nigh,
A mother's heart shine in thine eye;
And proud resolve, and purpose meek,
Speak of thee more than words can speak,--

I think the wedded wife of mine
The best of all that 's not divine!

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
Throws off night's weed of pilgrim gray;
Ere yet the hare, cower'd close from view,
Licks from her fleece the clover dew:
Or wild swan shakes her snowy wings,
By hunters roused from secret springs:
Or birds upon the boughs awake,
Till green Arbigland's woodlands shake.
She comb'd her curling ringlets down,
Laced her green jupes, and clasp'd her shoon
And from her home, by Preston-burn,
Came forth the rival light of morn.
The lark's song dropp'd,-now loud, now hush,---
The goldspink answer'd from the bush;
The plover, fed on heather crop,
Call'd from the misty mountain top.
'Tis sweet, she said, while thus the day
Grows into gold from silvery gray,
To hearken heaven, and bush, and brake,
Instinct with soul of song awake;-
To see the smoke, in many a wreath,
Stream blue from hall and bower beneath,
Where yon blithe mower hastes along
With glittering scythe and rustic song.
Yes, lovely one! and dost thou mark
The moral of yon carolling lark?
Takest thou from Nature's counsellor tongue
The warning precept of her song?
Each bird that shakes the dewy grove
Warms its wild note with nuptial love;
The bird, the bee, with various sound,
Proclaim the sweets of wedlock round.

THE SHEPHERD SEEKS HIS GLOWING HEARTH.

THE shepherd seeks his glowing hearth,
The fox calls from the mountain,
The folded flocks are white with rime,
Swans seek the silent fountain;
And midnight starless is and drear,

And Ae's wild waters swelling,
Far up the lonesome greenwood glen,
Where my fair maiden's dwelling.
Wild is the night-green July's eve,
Ne'er balmier seem'd or warmer;
For I sing thy name, and muse on thee,
My mild and winsome charmer;
Thy bower sheds far its trysting light

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,
But the love I left in Galloway,
Wi' bonnie bairns three;
My hamely hearth burn'd bonnie,
And smiled my fair Marie,---
I've left a' my heart behind rae,
In my ain countree.

The bud comes back to summer,
An' the blossom to the bee,
But I win back-oh never!
To my ain countree.
I'm leal to the high heaven,

Which will be leal to me;
An' there I'll meet ye a' soca,
Frae my ain countree.

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