OUTSTRETCHED beneath the leafy shade
Of Windsor Forest's deepest glade

A dying woman lay;
Three little children round her stood,
And there went up from the greenwood
A woful wail that day.

"O mother!" was the mingled cry,
O mother, mother! do not die

And leave us all alone.""My blessed babes!" she tried to say, But the faint accents died away

In a low sobbing moan.

And then life struggled hard with death, And fast and strong she drew her breath, And up she raised her head;

And peering through the deep wood maze With a long, sharp, unearthly gaze,

66 Will he not come?" she said.

'I will go with you, child,' he said; 'God sends me to this dying bed.'

Mother, he's here, hard by." While thus the little maiden spoke, The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye.

The bridle on his neck flung free,
With quivering flank and trembling knee,
Pressed close his bonny bay;

A statelier man, a statelier steed,
Never on greensward paced, I rede,

Than those stood there that day.

So, while the little maiden spoke,
The man, his back against an oak,

Looked on with glistening eye
And folded arms; and in his look
Something that, like a sermon book,
Preached "All is Vanity."

But when the dying woman's face Turned toward him with a wishful gaze, He stepped to where she lay; And kneeling down, bent over her, Saying, "I am a minister

My sister, let us pray."

And well, withouten book or stole, (God's words were printed on his soul) Into the dying ear

He breathed, as 'twere an angel's strain, The things that unto life pertain,

And death's dark shadows clear.

He spoke of sinners' lost estate,
In Christ renewed-regenerate;
Of God's most blest decree,
That not a single soul should die
Which turns repentant with the cry,
Be merciful to me."

He spoke of trouble, pain, and toil, Endured but for a little while

In patience, faith, and love---Sure, in God's own good time, to be Exchanged for an eternity

Of happiness above.

Then as the spirit ebbed away--
He raised his hands and eyes, to pray
That peaceful it might pass;
And then-the orphans' sobs alone
Were heard as they knelt every one
Close round on the green grass.

Such was the sight their wond'ring eyes Beheld, in heart-struck, mute surprise,

Who reined their coursers back, Just as they found the long astray, Who, in the heat of chase that day, Had wandered from their track. Back each man reined his pawing steed, And lighted down, as if agreed,

In silence at his side;

And there, uncovered all, they stood-
It was a wholesome sight and good
That day for mortal pride:

For of the noblest of the land
Was that deep-hushed, bare-headed band;
And central in the ring,

By that dead pauper on the ground,
Her ragged orphans clinging round,
Knelt their anointed King!
REV. G. CRABBE.

Ir came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold:
"Peace to the earth, goodwill to men
From heaven's all-gracious King; "-
The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven sky they come
With peaceful wings unfurled;
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world:
Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on heavenly wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds

The blessed angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long-
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;

And men, at war with men, hear not
The love-song which they bring :
Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;
Look now! for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing:
Oh! rest beside the weary road,
And hear the angels sing!

For lo the days are hastening on,
By prophet-bards foretold,
When with the ever-circling years
Comes round the age of gold;
When Peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendours fling,
And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing!

E. H. SEARS.

MERRILY, merrily, goes the bark,

On a breeze from the northward free; So shoots through the morning sky the lark,

Or the swan through the summer sea.
The shores of Mull on the eastward lay,
And Ulva dark, and Colonsay,
And all the group of islets gay

That guard famed Staffa round.
Then all unknown its columns rose,
Where dark and undisturbed repose
The cormorant had found;
And the shy seal had quiet home,
And weltered in that wondrous dome,
Where, as to shame the temples decked
By skill of earthly architect,

Nature herself, it seemed, would raise
A minster to her Maker's praise !
Not for a meaner use ascend
Her columns, or her arches bend;
Nor of a theme less solemn tells
That mighty surge that ebbs and swells,
And still, between each awful pause,
From the high vault an answer draws,
In varied tone prolonged and high,
That mocks the organ's melody.
Nor doth its entrance front in vain
To old Iona's holy fane,

That Nature's voice might seem to say,
"Well hast thou done, frail child of clay!
Thy humble powers that stately shrine
Tasked high, and hard-but witness mine."
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound,
Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!
And I'll give thee a silver pound,

To row us o'er the ferry."—

"Now, who be ye would cross Loch Gyle,

This dark and stormy water?"— "O! I'm the chief of Ulva's Isle,

And this, Lord Ullin's daughter.

And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together;
For should he find us in the glen,
My blood would stain the heather.
His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,
Then who will cheer my bonny bride,
When they have slain her lover?"-
Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,
'I'll go, my chief-I'm ready :
It is not for your silver bright,

But for your winsome lady:

And, by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry; So, though the waves are raging white, I'll row you o'er the ferry."

By this the storm grew loud apace, The water-wraith was shrieking; And in the scowl of heaven, each face Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still, as wilder blew the wind,
And as the night grew drearer,
Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries, Though tempests round us gather; I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."—

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,-
When, oh! too strong for human hand,
The tempest gathered o'er her.

And still they rowed amidst the roar
Of waters fast prevailing:
Lord Ullin reached that fatal shore,-
His wrath was changed to wailing.

For, sore dismayed, through storm and
His child he did discover;-- [shade
One lovely hand she stretched for aid,
And one was round her lover.