His colour sicken'd more and more, And then his enemies began To show their deadly rage. They took a weapon long and sharp, They laid him down upon his back, They fill'd up then a darksome pit And heaved in poor John Barleycorn, They laid him out upon the floor, They wasted o'er a scorching flame But the miller used him worst of all, For he crush'd him between two stones. And they have taken his very heart's blood, And so farewell, John Barleycorn! THE FIRST GRIEF. By Mrs. HEMANS. "OH! call my brother back to me, I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and beeWhere is my brother gone? "The butterfly is glancing bright I care not now to chase its flight- "The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd Around our garden-tree; Our vine is drooping with its load- Oh! call him back to me." "He would not hear my voice, fair child! The face that once like spring-time smiled "A rose's brief bright life of joy, "And has he left the birds and flowers, And through the long, long summer hours, "And by the brook, and in the glade, BURIAL OF THE DEAD. From KEBLE'S Christian Year. "And when the Lord saw her, He had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And He came and touched the bier; and they that bare him stood still. And He said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise."-St. Luke vii. 13, 14. Who says the wan autumnal sun To light up Nature's face again, And, though the year be on the wane, Waft him, thou soft September breeze, Within some circling woodland wall, Where bright leaves, reddening e'er they fall, And if some tones be false or low, In His own words we Christ adore, Higher above our meaning soar And yet His words mean more than they, And yet He owns their praise: Why should we think He turns away HYMN TO THE NATIVITY. This, the most magnificent Hymn in our language, is by MILTON. It was the winter wild, While the heaven-born child, All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies: Nature, in awe to him, Hath doff'd her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathise : It was no season then for her To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour. Only with speeches fair She wooes the gentle air To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame, Pollute with sinful blame, The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes Should look so near upon her foul deformities. But he, her fears to cease, Sent down the meek-eyed Peace; She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere, His ready harbinger, With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand, She strikes a universal peace through sea and land. Nor war nor battle's sound Was heard the world around: The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstain'd with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat 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: The winds, with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kiss'd, Whispering new joys to the mild ocean; Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave. The stars, with deep amaze, Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight, For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow, Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go. And, though the shady gloom Had given day her room, The sun himself withheld his wonted speed, And hid his head for shame, As his inferior flame The new-enlighten'd world no more should need; He saw a greater sun appear Than his bright throne, or burning axle-tree, could bear. The shepherds on the lawn, Or ere the point of dawn, Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then That the mighty Pan Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep, Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep. When such music sweet Their hearts and ears did greet, As never was by mortal finger strook ; Divinely warbled voice Answer'd the stringed noise, As all their souls in blissful rapture took; The air, such pleasure loath to lose, With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close. Nature that heard such sound, Beneath the hollow round Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling, Now was almost won To think her part was done, And that her reign had here its last fulfilling; She knew such harmony alone Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union. At last surrounds their sight A globe of circular light, That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd; The helmed Cherubim, And sworded Seraphim, Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire, With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir. Such music (as 'tis said) Before was never made, But when of old the sons of morning sung, While the Creator great His Constellations set, And the well-balanced world on hinges hung; And cast the dark foundations deep, And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep. |