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SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

THIS writer, a man of great and varied talents, was born in 1772, and died in 1834. His first publication, called The Watchman, produced at an early age, was unsuccessful, but it was followed by poems and several prose works which are justly held in high estimation, and have placed their author among the most eminent writers of the age. Whether in poetry or prose, they are written with much energy of feeling and grace of expression, and their sentiments are those of a learned man and a devout Christian.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

THE shepherds went their hasty 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 song the Virgin-Mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,

Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night;

While sweeter than a mother's song,
Blessed angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and peace on earth.
She listened to the tale divine,

And closer still the babe she pressed;
And while she cried, The babe is mine!

The milk rushed faster to her breast:

Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn:
Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,

Poor, simple, and of low estate;
That strife should vanish, battle cease,

Oh! why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,

Didst 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-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene,

To maids and youths in robes of state!

I am a woman poor and mean,

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 starves the son,
The husband kills, and from her board

Steals all his widow's toil had won;
Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

"Then wisely is my soul elate,

That strife should vanish, battle cease;

I'm poor, and of a low estate,

The Mother of the Prince of Peace!

Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn;

Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born!"

MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY.

BORN unto God in Christin Christ, my all!

What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather

Than forfeit that blest name, by which we call

The Holy One, the Almighty God, our Father!

The heir of heaven, henceforth I dread not death:
In Christ I live, in Christ I draw the breath

VOL. II.

11

Of the true life. Let sea, and earth, and sky,
Wage war against me; on my front I shew
Their mighty Maker's seal! In vain they try

To end my life, who can but end its woe.
Is that a death-bed where the Christian lies?
Yes! but not his: 'tis death itself that dies!

FELICIA HEMANS.

THIS lady, who died at Dublin in 1835, is favourably known as the authoress of many poetical pieces of great merit, the pure and graceful productions of a Christian gentlewoman. It is to be lamented that she did not do justice to her talents, by exerting them on some work of importance, as what she has left behind her, though excellent of their kind, show that she was capable of greater things.

THE HEBREW MOTHER.

THE rose was in rich bloom on Sharon's plain,
When a young mother, with her first-born, thence
Went up to Zion; for the boy was vowed

Unto the temple service. By the hand
She led him, and her silent soul, the while,

Oft as the dewy laughter of his eye

Met her sweet serious glance, rejoiced to think
That aught so pure, so beautiful, was hers,
To bring before her God.

So passed they on

O'er Judah's hills; and wheresoe'er the leaves
Of the broad sycamore made sounds at noon,
Like lulling rain-drops, or the olive-boughs
With their cool dimness crossed the sultry blue

Of Syria's heaven, she paused, that she might rest;
Yet from her own meek eyelids chased the sleep
That weighed their dark fringe down, to sit and watch
The crimson deepening o'er his cheeks' repose,

As at a red flower's heart: and where a fount
Lay, like a twilight star, midst palmy shades,
Making its banks green gems along the wild,
There too she lingered, from the diamond wave
Drawing clear water for his rosy lips,

And softly parting clusters of jet curls
To bathe his brow.

At last the Fane was reached,

The earth's One Sanctuary; and rapture hushed
Her bosom, as before her, through the day
It rose, a mountain of white marble, steeped
In light like floating gold. But when that hour
Waned to the farewell moment, when the boy
Lifted through rainbow-gleaming tears his eye
Beseechingly to hers, and, half in fear,

Turned from the white-robed priest, and round her arm
Clung even as ivy clings; the deep spring-tide
Of nature then swelled high; and o'er her child
Bending, her soul brake forth, in mingled sounds
Of weeping and sad song.-" Alas!" she cried,

"Alas, my boy! thy gentle grasp is on me,
The bright tears quiver in thy beaming eyes,
And now fond thoughts arise,

And silver cords again to earth have won me,
And like a vine thou claspest my full heart-
How shall I hence depart?

"How the lone paths retrace, where thou wert playing So late along the mountains at my side;

And I, in joyous pride,

By every place of flowers my course delaying,

Wove, e'en as pearls, the lilies round thy hair,
Beholding thee so fair!

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"And, oh! the home whence thy bright smile hath parted! Will it not seem as if the sunny day

Turned from its door away,

While, through its chambers wandering weary-hearted,

I languish for thy voice, which past me still,

Went like a singing rill?

"Under the palm-trees thou no more shalt meet me,
When from the fount at evening I return,

With the full water-urn!

Nor will thy sleep's low, dove-like murmurs greet me,
As midst the silence of the stars I wake,

And watch for thy dear sake.

"And thou, will slumber's dewy cloud fall round thee,
Without thy mother's hand to smooth thy bed?

Wilt thou not vainly spread

Thine arms, when darkness as a veil hath wound thee,
To fold my neck, and lift up, in thy fear,

A cry which none shall hear?

"What have I said, my child? will He not hear thee,
Who the young ravens heareth from their nest?

Will He not guard thy rest,

And in the hush of holy midnight near thee,
Breathe o'er thy soul, and fill its dreams with joy?
Thou shalt sleep soft, my boy!

"I give thee to thy God! the God that gave thee,
A well-spring of deep gladness to my heart!

And precious as thou art,

And pure as dew of Hermon, HE shall have thee,
My own, my beautiful, my undefiled!

And thou shalt be His child.

"Therefore, farewell!-I go; my soul may fail me,
As the stag panteth for the water-brooks,

Yearning for thy sweet looks;

But thou, my first-born, droop not, nor bewail me!
Thou, in the shadow of the rock shalt dwell,

The Rock of Strength-farewell!"

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