THE SONG OF THE CURFEW.

HARK! from the dim church-tower,
The deep, slow curfew's chime!
A heavy sound unto hall and bower,
In England's olden time!
Sadly 't was heard by him who came

From the fields of his toil at night,

And who might not see his own hearth's flame In his children's eyes make light.

Sadly and sternly heard

As it quenched the wood-fire's glow,

Which had cheered the board, with the mirthful word,

And the red wine's foaming flow
Until that sullen, booming knell,

Flung out from every fane,
On harp, and lip, and spirit fell,
With a weight, and with a chain.

Wo for the wanderer then

In the wild-deer's forests far!
No cottage lamp, to the haunts of men,
Might guide him as a star.

And wo for him, whose wakeful soul,
With lone aspirings filled,

Would have lived o'er some immortal scroll,
While the sounds of earth were stilled.

And yet a deeper wo,

For the watchers by the bed,
Where the fondly loved, in pain lay low,
And rest forsook the head.

For the mother, doomed unseen to keep
By the dying babe her place,
And to feel its flitting pulse, and weep,
Yet not behold its face!

Darkness, in chieftain's hall!

Darkness, in peasant's cot!

While Freedom, under that shadowy pall,
Sat mourning o'er her lot.

Oh! the fireside's peace we well may prize,
For blood hath flowed like rain,
oured forth to make sweet sanctuaries
Of England's homes again!

Heap the yule-fagots high,

Til the red light filis the room!

ome's own hour, when the stormy sky Grows thick with evening gloom.

Gather ye round the holy hearth,

And by its gladdening blaze,

Unto thankful bliss we will change our mirth, Wit.. a thought of the olden days.

HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS.
OH! lovely voices of the sky
Which hymned the Saviour's birth,
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth ?"
To us yet speak the strains
Wherewith, in time gone by,
Ye blessed the Syrian swains,
Oh! voices of the sky!

Oh! clear and shining light, whose beans
That hour Heaven's glory shed,
Around the palms, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherd's head.

Be near, through life and death,
As in that holiest night

Of hope, and joy, and faith-
Oh! clear and shining light!

Oh! star which led to Him, whose love
Brought down man's ransom free-
Where art thou?-'midst the host above,
May we still gaze on thee?

In Heaven thou art not set,

Thy rays earth may not dim,
Send them to guide us yet,

Oh! star which led to Him!

CHRIST STILLING THE TEMPEST

"But the ship was now in the midst of the sea, tossed with waves; for the wind was contrary." St. Matthew, ziv. 24

FEAR was within the tossing bark,
When stormy winds grew loud;
And waves came rolling high and dark,
And the tall mast was bowed.

And men stood breathless in their dread,
And baffled in their skill-

But One was there, who rose and said
To the wild sea, "Be still!"

And the wind ceased-it ceased!-that word
Passed through the gloomy sky;
The troubled billows knew their Lord,
And sank beneath his eye.

And slumber settled on the deep,

And silence on the blast,

As when the righteous falls asleep,
When death's fierce throes are past.
Thou that didst rule the angry hour,
And tame the tempest's mood
Oh! send thy spirit forth in power,
O'er our dark souls to brood!

Thou that didst bow the billow's pride,

Thy mandates to fulfilSpeak, speak, to passion's raging tide, Speak and say-"Peace, be still!”

CHRIST'S AGONY IN THE GARDEN.

He knelt the Saviour knelt and prayed,
When but His Father's eye
Looked through the lonely garden's shade,
On that dread agony!

The Lord of all, above, beneath,
Was bowed with sorrow unto death.

The sun set in a fearful hour,

The skies might well grow dim, When this mortality had power

So to o'ershadow Him!

That He who gave man's breath might know,
The very depths of human wo.

He knew them all-the doubt, the strife,
The faint, perplexing dread,
The mists that hang o'er parting life,
All darkened round His head!
And the Deliverer knelt to pray-
Yet passed it not, that cup, away.

It passed not-though the stormy wave
Had sunk beneath His tread;

It passed not-though to Him the grave
Had yielded up its dead.

But there was sent Him from on high
A gift of strength, for man to die.*

And was His mortal hour beset

With anguish and dismay?

-How may we meet our conflict yet,

In the dark, narrow way?

How, but through Him, that path who trod? Save, or we perish, Son of God!

THE SUNBEAM.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades,
And the quivering leaves that have caught thy
glow,

Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I looked on the mountains-a vapour lay
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brakest forth-and the mist became
A crown and a mantle of living flame.

I looked on the peasant's lowly cot-
Something of sadness had wrapt the spot;
But a gleam of thee on its casement fell,
And it laughed into beauty at that bright spell.

To the earth's wild places a guest thou art,
Flushing the waste like the rose's heart;
And thou scornest not, from thy pomp to shed
A tender light on the ruin's head.

Thou tak'st through the dim church-aisle thy way,
And its pillars from twilight flash forth to day,
And its high pale tombs, with their trophies old,
Are bathed in a flood as of burning gold.

And thou turnest not from the humblest grave,
Where a flower to the sighing winds may wave;
Thou scatterest its gloom like the dreams of rest,
Thou sleepest in love on its grassy breast.

Sunbeam of summer, oh! what is like thee?
Hope of the wilderness, joy of the sea!
-One thing is like thee, to mortals given,—
The faith, touching all things with hues of Heaven.

THE TRAVELLER AT THE SOURCE OF THE NILE.

IN sunset's light o'er Afric thrown,
A wanderer proudly stood

Beside the well-spring, deep and lone,

Of Egypt's awful flood; The cradle of that mighty birth, So long a hidden thing to earth.

He heard its life's first murmuring sound, A low mysterious tone;

A music sought, but never found

By kings and warriors gone ;
He listened and his heart beat high
That was the song of victory!

The rapture of a conqueror's mood

Rushed burning through his frame The depths of that green solitude

Its torrents could not tame, Though stillness lay, with eve's last smile Round those calm fountains of the Nile

Night came with stars:-across his soul
There swept a sudden change,
E'en at the pilgrim's glorious goal,

A shadow dark and strange,
Breathed from the thought, so swift to fall
O'er triumph's hour-And is this all?
No more than this!-what seemed it now
First by that spring to stand?
A thousand streams of lovelier flow

Bathed his own mountain land!
Whence, far o'er waste and ocean track,
Their wild sweet voices called him back.
They called him back to many a glade,

His childhood's haunt of play, Where brightly through the beechen shade Their waters glanced away;

They called him, with their sounding waves, Back to his fathers' hills and graves.

But darkly mingling with the thought

Of each familiar scene,

Rose up a fearful vision, fraught

With all that lay between;"
The Arab's lance, the desert's gloom,
The whirling sands, the red simoom!

Where was the glow of power and pride?

The spirit born to roam?
His weary heart within him died

With yearnings for his home;
All vainly struggling to repress
That gush of painful tenderness.
He wept-the stars of Afric's heaven
Beheld his bursting tears,
E'en on that spot where fate had given
The meed of toiling years.

-Oh, happiness! how far we flee
Thine own sweet paths in search of thee!*

THE VAUDOIS VALLEYS.
YES, thou hast met the sun's last smile,
From the haunted hills of Rome;
By many a bright Egean isle,

Thou hast seen the billows foam:
From the silence of the Pyramid

Thou hast watched the solemn flow
Of the Nile, that with its waters hid
The ancient realm below:

Thy heart hath burned as shepherds sung
Some wild and warlike strain,
Where the Moorish horn once proudly rung
Through the pealing hills of Spain:

• The arrival of Bruce at what he considered to be the ource of the Nile, was followed almost immediately by feelings thus suddenly fluctuating from triumph to despondence -See his Travels in Abyssinia.

And o'er the lonely Grecian streams
Thou hast heard the laurels moan,
With a sound yet murmuring in thy dreams
Of the glory that is gone.

But go thou to the pastoral vales

Of the Alpine mountains old,
If thou wouldst hear immortal tales
By the wind's deep whispers told!
Go, if thou lovest the soil to tread,

Where man hath nobly striven,
And life, like incense, hath been shed,
An offering unto Heaven

For o'er the snows, and round the pines,
Hath swept a noble flood;

The nurture of the peasant's vines
Hath been the martyr's blood!

A spirit, stronger than the sword,
And loftier than despair,
Through all the heroic region pourel,
Breathes in the generous air.

A memory clings to every steep
Of long-enduring faith,

And the sounding streams glad record keep
Of courage unto death.

Ask of the peasant where his sires

For truth and freedom bled,
Ask, where were lit the torturing fires,
Where lay the holy dead;

And he will tell thee, all around,

On fount, and turf, and stone, Far as the chamois' foot can bound, Their ashes have been sown!

Go, when the sabbath bell is heard*

Up through the wilds to float, When the dark old woods and caves are stirred To gladness by the note;

When forth, along their thousand rills,

The mountain people come,

Join thou their worship on those hills
Of glorious martyrdom.

And while the song of praise ascends,
And while the torrent's voice
Like the swell of many an organ blends,
Then let thy soul rejoice!

*See "Gilly's Researches amongst the Mountains of Pied mont," for an interesting description of a sabbath day in the upper regions of the Vaudois. The inhabitants of those Protestant valleys, who, like the Swiss, repair with their flocks and herds to the summits of the hills during the summer, are followed thither by their pastors, and at that season of the year, assemble on that sacred day, to worship in the open air,

SING them upon the sunny hills,

When days are long and bright, And the blue gleam of shining rills Is loveliest to the sight.

Sing them along the misty moor,

Where ancient hunters roved,

And swell them through the torrent's roarThe songs our fathers loved!

The songs their souls rejoiced to hear

When harps were in the hall,

And each proud note made lance and spear
Thrill on the bannered wall:

The songs that through our valleys green
Sent on from age to age,

Like his own river's voice, have been
The peasant's heritage.

The reaper sings them when the vale
Is filled with plumy sheaves;
The woodman, by the starlight pale
Cheered homeward through the leaves:
And unto them the glancing oars

A joyous measure keep,

Where the dark rocks that crest our shores Dash back the foaming deep.

So let it be!-a light they shed

O'er each old fount and grove;
A memory of the gentle dead,
A spell of lingering love:
Murmuring the names of mighty men,
They bid our streams roll on,
And link high thoughts to every glen
Where valiant deeds were done.

Teach them your children round the hearth,
When evening-fires burn clear,
And in the fields of harvest mirth,

And on the hills of deer!

So shall each unforgotten word,
When far those loved ones roam,
Call back the hearts that once it stirred,
To childhood's holy home.

The green woods of their native land
Shall whisper in the strain,
The voices of their household band
Shall sweetly speak again;

THE BURIAL OF WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR.

LOWLY upon his bier

The royal conqueror lay, Baron and chief stood near,

Down the long minster's aisle,"
Crowds mutely gazing streamed,
Altar and tomb, the while,

Through mists of incense gleamed;

And by the torch's blaze

The stately priest had said
High words of power and praise,
To the glory of the dead.

They lowered him, with the sound
Of requiems, to repose,
When from the throngs around
A solemn voice arose:
"Forbear, forbear!" it cried,

"In the holiest name forbear! He hath conquered regions wide, But he shall not slumber there. "By the violated hearth

Which made way for yon proud shrine, By the harvests which this earth

Hath borne to me and mine;

"By the home e'en here o'erthrown, On my children's native spot,— Hence! with his dark renown

Cumber our birth-place not!

"Will my sire's unransomed field O'er which your censers wave, To the buried spoiler yield

Soft slumber in the grave?

"The tree before him fell

Which we cherished many a year, But its deep root yet shall swell

And heave against his bier.

"The land that I have tilled,

Hath yet its brooding breast
With my home's white ashes filled-

And it shall not give him rest. "Here each proud column's bed

Hath been wet by weeping eyes

Hence! and bestow your dead

Where no wrong against him cries

Shame glowed on each dark face
Of those proud and steel-girt men,
And they bought with gold a place
For their leader's dust, e'en then.

A little earth for him

Whose banner flew so far! And a peasant's tale could dim The name, a nation's star!

One deep voice thus arose

From a heart which wrongs had riven-Oh! who shall number those

That were but heard in Heaven ?*

THE SOUND OF THE SEA. THOU art sounding on, thou mighty sea, For ever and the same! The ancient rocks yet ring to thee, Whose thunders nought can tame.

Oh! many a glorious voice is gone,

From the rich bowers of earth, And hushed is many a lovely one

Of mournfulness or mirth.

The Dorian flute that sighed of yore
Along thy wave, is still;

The harp of Judah peals no more
On Zion's awful hill.

And Memnon's lyre hath lost the chord

That breathed the mystic tone,

And the songs, at Rome's high triumphs poured,
Are with her eagles flown.

And mute the Moorish horn, that rang
O'er stream and mountain free,

And the hymn the leagued Crusaders sang,
Hath died in Galilee.

But thou art swelling on, thou deep,
Through many an olden clime,
Thy billowy anthem, ne'er to sleep
Until the close of time.

Thou liftest up thy solemn voice

To every wind and sky,

And all our earth's green shores rejoice
In that one harmony.

It fills the noontide's calm profound,
The sunset's heaven of gold;
And the still midnight hears the sound,
E'en as when first it rolled.

For the particulars of this and other scarcely less remarkable circumstances which attended the obsequies of William the Conqueror, see Sismondi's Histoire des Francais, vol. iv. p. 480.

Let there be silence, deep and strange,

Where sceptred cities rose!

Thou speak'st of one who doth not change-So may our hearts repose.

CASABIANCA.⭑

THE boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;

A creature of heroic blood,

A proud, though child-like form.

The flames rolled on-he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He called aloud-"Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?"
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.

"Speak, Father!" once again he cried,
"If I may yet be gone!"
-And but the booming shots replied,

And fast the flames rolled on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath,

And in his waving hair;

And looked from that lone post of death,
In still, yet brave despair.

And shouted but once more aloud

"My father! must I stay?"

While o'er him fast through sail and shroud, The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the ship in splendour wild,

They caught the flag on high,

And streamed above the gallant child,
Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-
The boy-oh! where was he?
-Ask of the winds that far around

With fragments strewed the sea!

With mast, and helm, and pennon fair,
That well had borne their part-
But the noblest thing that perished there
Was that young faithful heart.

• Young Casabianca, a boy about thirteen years old, son tc the admiral of the Orient, remained at his post (in the battle of the Nile), after the ship had taken fire, and all the guns had been abandoned; and perished in the explosion of the vessel when the flames had reached the powder.