His burning idol all of blackest hue;
In vain with cymbals' ring,

They call the grisly king,

In dismal dar.ce about the furnace blue;

The brutish gods of Nile as fast,

Isis, and Orus, and the dog Anubis, haste.

Nor is Osiris seen

In Memphian grove, or green,

Trampling the unshowered grass with lowings loud:
Nor can he be at rest

Within his sacred chest;

Nought but profoundest hell can be his shroud;
In vain, with timbrelled anthems dark,

The sable-stoled sorcerers bear his worshipped ark.

He feels from Judah's land

The dreaded Infant's hand,

The rays of Bethlehem blind his dusky eyn;

Nor all the gods beside

Longer dare abide,

Not Typhon huge ending in snaky twine;

Our Babe, to show His Godhead true,

Can in His swaddling bands control the damned crew.

So, when the Sun in bed,
Curtained with cloudy red,

Pillows his chin upon an orient wave,

The flocking shadows pale

Troop to the infernal jail,

Each fettered ghost slips to his several grave,

And the yellow-skirted fays

Fly after the night-steeds, leaving their moon-loved maze.

Religious Poems.

But see, the Virgin blest

Hath laid her Babe to rest;

Time is, our tedious song should here have ending:
Heaven's youngest-teemèd star

Hath fixed her polished car,

Her sleeping Lord, with handmaid lamp, attending:
And all about the courtly stable

Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

105

A Christmas Carol.

(SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.)

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, Blest 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,

O 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?

Religious Poems.

107

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."

Christmas Day.

(GEORGE WITHER.)

As on the night before this happy morn,
A blessed angel unto shepherds told,
Where (in a stable) He was poorly born,

Whom nor the earth, nor heaven of heavens can hold.

Through Bethlem rung

This news at their return;

Yea, angels sung

That God with us was born;

And they made mirth because we should not mourn.

Their angel-carol sing we, then,

To God on high all glory be,
For peace on earth bestoweth He,
And showeth favour unto men.

This favour Christ vouchsafèd for our sake;
To buy us thrones, He in a manger lay;
Our weakness took, that we His strength might take:
And was disrobed that He might us array;

Our flesh He wore,

Our sin to wear away;

Our curse He bore,

That we escape it may;

And wept for us, that we might sing for aye.