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Gifts of frankincense, with sweet song of birds,
And Autumn cast his yellow coronet
Down at thy feet,—and stormy Winter speak
Hoarsely of Man's neglect.

But now we come'

To do thee homage,—Mother of our Chief! —
Fit homage—Such as honoreth him who pays

Methinks we see thee, as in olden time,—
Simple in garb—majestic and serene—
Unawed by ' pomp and circumstance '—in truth
Inflexible,—and with a Spartan zeal
Repressing Vice, and making Folly grave.
Thou didst not deem it Woman's part to waste
Life in inglorious sloth, to sport awhile
Amid the flowers, or on the Summer wave,
Then fleet like the Ephemeron away,—
Building no" temple in her children's hearts,
Save to the vanity and pride of life,
Which she had worshipped.

Of the might that clothed
The ' Pater Patriae,'—of the deeds that won
A nation's liberty, and earth's applause,
Making Mount Vernon's tomb a Mecca haunt
For patriot and for sage, while time shall last,
What part was thine, what thanks to thee are due,
Who, 'mid his elements of being, wrought
With no uncertain aim—nursing the germs
Of godlike Virtue in his infant mind,
We know notHeaven can tell.

Rise, noble pile!
And show a race unborn ivho rests below,—
And say to Mothers, what a holy charge
Is theirs,—with what a kingly power their love
Might rule the fountains of the new-born mind—
Warn them to wake at early dawn, and sow
Good seed before the world doth sow its tares,
Nor in their toil decline,—that angel-hands
May put the sickle in, and reap for God,
A.nd gather to His garner.

'Ye, who stand,
With thrilling breast, and kindling cheek, this morn,
Viewing the tribute that Virginia pays
To the blest Mother of her glorious Chief,

Ye, whose last thought upon your nightly couch,
Whose first at waking, is your cradled son—
What though no dazzling hope aspires to rear
A second Washington—or leave your name
Wrought out in marble with your country's tears
Of deathless gratitude,—yet may ye raise
A monument above the Stars—a soul
Led by your teachings and your prayers to God.


The Sunbeam.Mrs. Hema.ns.

Thou art no lingerer in monarch's hall;
A joy thou art, and a wealth to all!
A bearer of hope upon land and sea—
Sunbeam! what gift hath the world like thee?

Thou art walking the billows, and ocean smiles—
Thou hast touched with glory his thousand isles—
Thou hast lit up the ships and the feathery foam,
And gladdened the sailor like words from home.

To the solemn depths of the forest shades,
Thou art streaming on through their green arcades;
A.nd the quivering leaves that have caught thy glow
Like fire-flies glance to the pools below.

I looked on the mountains —a vapor lay,
Folding their heights in its dark array;
Thou brokest 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 wrapped the spot
But the 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 aisles 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 turn'st 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 '.leaven


Christmas in England.Irving.

There is nothing in England that exercises a more delightful spell over my imagination, than the lingerings of the holyday customs and rural games of former times. They recall the pictures my fancy used to draw in the May morning of life, when as yet I only knew the world through books, and believed it to be all that poets had painted it; and they bring with them the flavor of those honest days of yore, in which, perhaps with equal fallacy, I am apt to think the world was more homebred, social, and joyous than at present.

I regret to say that they are daily growing more and more faint, being gradually worn away by time, but still more obliterated by modern fashion. They resemble those picturesque morsels of Gothic architecture, which we see crumbling in various parts of the country, partly dilapidated by the waste of ages, and partly lost in the additions and alterations of latter days.

Poetry, however, clings with cherishing fondness about the rural game and holyday revel, from which it has derived so many of its themes—as the ivy winds its rich foliags about the Gothic arch and mouldering tower, gratefully repaying their support, by clasping together their tottering remains, and, as it were, embalming them in verdure.

Of all the old festivals, however, that of Christmas awakens the strongest and most heartfelt associations. There is a tone of solemn and sacred feeling that blends with our conviviality, and lifts the spirit to a state of hallowed and elevated enjoyment.

The services of the church about this season are extremely tender and inspiring: they dwell on the beautiful story of the origin of our faith, and the pastoral scenes that accompanied its announcement: they gradually increase in fervor and pathos during the season of Advent, until they break forth in full jubilee on the morning that brought peace and good will to men.

I do not know a grander effect of music on the moral feelings, than to hear the full choir and the pealing organ, performing a Christinas anthem in a cathedral, and filling every part of the vast pile with triumphant harmony.

It is a beautiful arrangement, also, derived from days of yore, that this festival, which commemorates the announcement of the religion of peace and love, has been made the season for gathering together of family connexions, and drawing closer again those bands of kindred hearts, which the cares, and pleasures, and sorrows of the world, are continually operating to cast loose; of calling back the children of a family, who have launched forth in life, and wandered widelj asunder, once more to assemble about the paternal hearth, that rallying-place of the aifections, there to grow young and loving again among the endearing mementos of childhood.

There is something in the very season of the year, that gives a charm to the festivity of Christmas. At other times, we derive a great portion of our pleasures from the mere beauties of Nature. Our feelings sally forth and dissipate themselves over the sunny landscape, and we 'live abroad and every where.'

The song of the bird, the murmur of the stream, the breathing fragrance of spring, the soft voluptuousness of summer, the golden pomp of autumn, earth with its mantle of refreshing green, and heaven with its deep delicious blue and its cloudy magnificence,—all fill us with mute but exquisite delight, and we revel in the luxury of mere sensation.

But in the depth of winter, when Nature lies despoiled of every charm, and wrapped in her shroud of sheeted snow, we turn for our gratifications to moral sources. The dreariness and desolation of the landscape, the short gloomy days ana darksome nights, while they circumscribe our wanderings, shut in our feelings also from rambling abroad, and make us more keenly disposed for the pleasures of the social circle.

Our thoughts are more concentrated; our friendly sympathies more aroused. We feel more sensibly the charm of each other's society, and are brought more closely together by dependence on each other for enjoyment. Heart calleth unto heart, and we draw our pleasures from the deep wells of living kindness, which lie in the quiet recesses of our bosoms; and which, when resorted to, furnish forth the pure element of domestic felicity.

The pitchy gloom without makes the heart dilate, on entering the room filled with the glow and warmth of the evening fire. The ruddy blaze diffuses an artificial summer and sunshine through the room, and lights up each countenance into a kindlier welcome.

Where does the honest face of hospitality expand into a broader and more cordial smile—where is the shy glance of love more sweetly eloquent—than by the winter fireside? and, as the hollow blast of wintry wind rushes through the hall, claps the distant door, whistles about the casement, and rumbles down the chimney, what can be more grateful than that feeling of sober and sheltered security, with which we look round upon the comfortable chamber, and the scene of domestic hilarity?

The English, from the great prevalence of rural habits throughout every class of society, have always been fond of those festivals and holydays, which agreeably interrupt the stillness of country life; and they were, in former days, particularly observant of the religious and social rites of Christmas. It- is inspiring to read even the dry details which some antiquaries have given of the quaint humors, the burlesque pageants, the complete abandonment to mirth and good fellowship, with which this festival was celebrated.

It seemed to throw open every door, and unlock every heart. It brought the peasant and the peer together, and blended all ranks in one warm generous flow of joy and kindness. The old halls of castles and manor-houses, resounded with the harp and the Christmas carol, and their ample boards groaned under the weight of hospitality. Even the poorest cottage welcomed the festive season, with green decorations of bay and holly—the cheerful fire glanc*

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