he may be there are many such in tian, and its character given by the England for their education is Chris church. COWSLIP GREEN. BY H. T. WHEN every BARLEY WOOD. A voice in vision-haunted Gibeon came: "Because thou didst not earth's poor gauds admire, Withal thou hast not sought thee wealth and fame." O'er hill, wood, ocean, and green valley, where Rose, central, the heaven-pointing church-tower gray! How it howls! That was a very avalanche. Worse weather than Christmas week, though that was wild, and the snow-winds preached charity to all who had roofs overhead-towards the houseless and them who huddle round hearths where the fire is dying or dead. Those blankets must have been a Godsend indeed to not a few families, and your plan is preferable to a Fancy-Fair. Yet that is good too-nor do we find fault with them who dance for the Destitute. We sanction amusements that give relief to misery and the wealthy may waltz unblamed for behoof of the poor. Two minutes and 'twill be Sabbath morning. How serene the face of that TimePiece! and how expressive! Your chair comes at one-the fire is low, but bright-read you now, beloved friend, and there is true piety as well as true poetry in this "Christmas Hymn." 'Tis by the same gentleman whose merry songs we chanted an hour ago. The most cheerful are often the most religious-a wise mirth observes due place and season-and the eyes that smile brightest are often the most ready to be filled with tears. A CHRISTMAS HYMN. It was the calm and silent night!— Seven hundred years and fifty-three Had Rome been growing up to might, And now was Queen of land and sea! No sound was heard of clashing wars- main : Apollo, Pallas, Jove and Mars, sunk deep into many a wondering and reverential young spirit, meditating on tidings of great joy, "Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise." All true Hymns-for they are holy— may be read without abatement of emotion-the humble interchanging with the high-the sweet with the solemn so congenial are all religious moods-awoke by light from heaven. "No war or battle's sound Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high up hung, The hooked chariot stood, Unstained with hostile blood, The trumpet spake not to the armed throng, And kings stood still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by. But peaceful was the night, Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began: Whispering new joys to the mild ocean, Recite again the simple Hymn yet in your hand, and you will feel its beauty even the more after those magnificent stanzas. Nor will the three little compositions we shall now ourselves recite, fall unheeded on your ear yet sounding with those multitudinous harmonies, for they are sincere--as the dews on Hermon. SUMMER EVENING IN HERTS. (COMPOSED MANY SEASONS AGO.) How calm the valley's slumbering breast, Faint murmuring to the breeze! How cool the shadows that descend NAY, Shepherd! Turn I prythee turn away, With bark of watchful dogs and rustic lay! Lo, the clouds gather, and with troublous fringe Now do the hands that once could wield the sword And rein the charger in the wild crusade, Clasp the dear symbol and the knotted chord, And supplicate for guidance, light and aid, That they their humbler duties may fulfil. They are by our unknown friend RusTICUS QUONDAM. In our day it was Wordsworth who restored the Sonnet to its place in Poetry. His Book of Sonnets-were they all in one Book-would be the Statesman's, Warrior's, Priest's, Sage's Manual. To him we nowfor the first time-and we shall soon see the application made by others with a proud air of originality-apply his own line to the Lark in Heaven "A privacy of glorious light is there." Many hundred excellent sonnets have been inspired by his; and the best, perhaps, have been by our "Sketcher." They are not imitations of Wordsworth's any more than Wordsworth's are imitations of Milton's-or Milton's of the greatest of the Italian Masters. The subjects are all his own, and his own the handling; he is unequalled in the picturesque; and the Poet's pen does the work-as far as words can compete with colours-of the painter's pencil. But his Sonnets are full of thought and feeling-often most ingenious-and as often profound; "grace is in all his steps" in his gayer moods of fancy; he is occasionally quainta quality that cannot be described, but is felt to be delightful-and though not seldom harsh in his versification, and in his diction obscure, he is never weak, and always original-for his effusions are all the fruits of his own experiences, and his is an eye "That broods and sleeps on its own heart." Mr Chapman's Sonnets we need not characterise, but leave these Six to speak for themselves;-ere we shall have recited them, the Time-piece will have struck One o'clock of Sabbath morning-and thou, Life of our Life, must then leave us, and carry with thee our blessing to thine own near home. Art thou so soon forgotten? thou, the loved Of all who knew thee? have the charm, the grace, The dove-like softness, left behind no trace For memory to hallow-as behoved Him most, whom more than all thy love approved? III. She is not beautiful, but lovely-grace 448 * Sweeter their dew than that the bee-bird sips; Her sweet cheek-roses; of more worth than ships He deems his fair" the cruelest she alive." IV. Oft in Hesperian climes, when dewy eve One while they shine, then darkling droop the wing- V. Sisters, unmothered in your tender years, The thoughts of innocence, hopes, wishes, fears, From the same fountain drawing smiles or tears; If to life's end, in after life too rare, Inviolate union each to each endears. Let not the rude world's weeds and brambles smother Still hand in hand, still loving one another, Travel unto that extreme bourne of time, That now divides you from your sainted mother- VI. TO THE REV. DR WORDSWORTH, MASTER OF TRINITY. Worthy! that in the fulness of thy years |