A CHRISTMAS CAROL. Taken from a Philadelphia magazine, where it appeared as the composition of the Rev. E. H. SEARS. Ir came upon the midnight clear, From angels bending near the earth Still through the cloven skies they come, Yet with the woes of sin and strife, And ye, beneath life's crushing road For lo, the days are hastening on And the whole world send back the song EVELYN HOPE. Another extract from the new volumes of Poems by ROBERT BROWNING, entitled Men and Women. (Chapman and Hall.) BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead— Little has yet been changed, I think— Save two long rays through the hinge's chink. Sixteen years old when she died! Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name- Her life had many a hope and aim, Duties enough and little cares, And now was quiet, now astir— And the sweet white brow is all of her. Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope? And our paths in the world diverged so wide, We were fellow mortals, nought beside ? BEAUTIFUL POETRY. 13 No, indeed! for God above Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love,I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delay'd it may be for more lives yet, Through worlds I shall traverse, not a fewMuch is to learn and much to forget Ere the time be come for taking you. But the time will come-at last it will- In the new life come in the old one's stead. I have lived, I shall say, so much since then, loved you, Evelyn, all the while; My heart seem'd full as it could hold; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep; See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep; You will wake, and remember, and understand. THE RIVER. By BARRY CORNWALL. THE river rushes-the river falls The sparkling, bounding, breathless river— It sings its merriest morning song, Its psalm at noon, its hymn at even; Perhaps it owns some (unknown) boon— Yielding the rose its crimson dower; Such life as in the mountain pine Confronts the storm, outlasts the thunder;- Because, like all things good and great, Thou minglest with each joy and sorrow, And each day comest without state, Bidding the thankless world "Good morrow!" A LYRIC. From a volume recently published in America, entitled National Miscellanies, by Mr. DUGANNE, containing much that is beautiful, amid more that is extravagant and incoherent. I SIT beside my gentle one: And thus we watch the parting sun In golden haze decline. Across the fields the shadows creep, And up the misty hill; And we our twilight vigils keep, At our own cottage-sill. BEAUTIFUL POETRY. The distant brooklet's murmurs come, The dove's last note, in rippling beats, The breath of all our garden sweets The russet woodbine round our porch They paint upon my darling's brow Her cheek is nestling on my breast, Oh! blessed be the changeless love That glorifies my life! All doubt, all fear, all guile above- THE GOBLET OF LIFE. By LONGFELLOW. FILL'D is life's goblet to the brim ; With solemn voice and slow. No purple flowers, no garlands green, 15 |