FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

[THIS Christmas Hymn is by Bishop Hall, equally celebrated as an eminent divine, and a satiric poet. He was a contemporary of Shakespeare, Jonson, Spenser, and the other stars of the Elizabethan age.]

IMMORTAL Babe, who this dear day
Didst change Thine heaven for our clay,
And didst with flesh Thy godhead veil,

Eternal Son of God, all hail!

Thine, happy star, ye angels, sing

Glory on high to Heaven's King.

Run, shepherds, leave your nightly watch,

See heaven come down to Bethlehem's cratch.

Worship, ye sages of the east,

The King of God in meanness dressed.

CHRISTMAS TIDE.

[THIS Song of Shakespeare, although a mere scrap, breathes a delightful spirit of fancy blended with religious feeling. It is to be regretted that the poet of all time has only left us a few fragments relating to our subject.]

OME say that ever'gainst that season comes,
Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,
The bird of dawning singeth all night long:

And then, they say, no spirit dares stir abroad;
The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,
No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,
So hallowed, and so gracious is the time.

HYMN ON THE NATIVITY OF MY

SAVIOUR.

[THE following Carol, or Hymn, was written by Ben Jonson, about the year 1600.]

SING the birth was born to night,

The author both of life and light;
The angel so did sound it,

And like the ravished shepherds said,
Who saw the light and were afraid,
Yet searched, and true they found it.

The Son of God th' Eternal King,

That did us all salvation bring,

And freed the soul from danger;

He whom the whole world could not take,

The word, which heaven and earth did make,

Was now laid in a manger.

The Father's wisdom willed it so,

The Son's obedience knew no No,

Both wills were in one stature ; And as that wisdom had decreed,

The Word was now made Flesh indeed, And took on him our nature.

What comfort by Him do we win,
Who made Himself the Prince of sin,
To make us heirs of Glory!
To see this babe all innocence,
A martyr born in our defence:

Can man forget this story?

THE ANGELS' SONG.

[WILLIAM DRUMMOND, of Hawthornden, the friend of Ben Jonson, was the author of the two following sonnets. Jonson once trudged on foot to Scotland to see and converse with the man whom he had long known as a friendly correspondent. From Jonson's rude manners it does not appear that their mutual regard was enhanced.]

UN, Shepherds, run where Bethlem blest

appears,

We bring the best of news, be not dismayed,

A Saviour there is born, more old than years Amidst Heaven's rolling heights this earth who stayed;

In a poor cottage inned, a Virgin Maid,

There is He poorly swaddled, in manger laid, A weakling did Him bear, who all upbears, To whom too narrow swaddlings are our spheres :

H