Hymn of the Hebrew Maid.
By day, along the astonished lands
The cloudy pillar glided slow;
By night, Arabia's crimson'd sands
Return'd the fiery column's glow.
There rose the choral hymn of praise,

And trump and timbrel answer'd keen,
And Zion's daughters poured their lays,
With priest's and warrior's voice between.
No portents now our foes amaze,

Forsaken Israel wanders lone;

Our fathers would not know Thy ways,
And Thou hast left them to their own.

But present still, though now unseen!
When brightly shines the prosperous day,
Be thoughts of Thee a cloudy screen
To temper the deceitful ray.

And oh, when stoops on Judah's path
In shade and storm the frequent night,
Be Thou, long suffering, slow to wrath,
A burning and a shining light!

Our harps we left by Babel's streams,

The tyrant's jest, the Gentile's scorn; No censer round our altar beams,

And mute are timbrel, harp, and horn; But Thou hast said," The blood of goat,

The flesh of rams I will not prize;

A contrite heart, an humble thought,
Are mine accepted sacrifice."

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HYMN FOR THE DEAD.

FROM THE LAY OF THE LAST MINSTREL.

That day of wrath, that dreadful day,
When heaven and earth shall pass away!
What power shall be the sinner's stay?
How shall he meet that dreadful day?

When, shrivelling like a parched scroll,
The flaming heavens together roll;
When louder yet, and yet more dread,
Swells the high trump that wakes the dead!

Oh! on that day, that wrathful day, When man to judgment wakes from clay, Be THOU the trembling sinner's stay, Though heaven and earth shall pass away!

CHRISTMAS.

FROM MARMION.

And well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had roll'd,
And brought blithe Christmas back again,
With all his hospitable train.

Christmas.

Domestic and religious rite

Gave honour to the holy night;

On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the mass was sung:
That only night in all the year,

Saw the stoled priest the chalice rear.
The damsel donn'd her kirtle sheen;
The hall was dress'd with holly green;
Forth to the wood did merry-men go,
To gather in the mistletoe.
Then open'd wide the Baron's hall
To vassal, tenant, serf, and all;
Power laid his rod of rule aside,
And Ceremony doff'd his pride.
The heir, with roses in his shoes,
That night might village partner choose;
The Lord, underogating, share
The vulgar game of " post and pair."
All hail'd, with uncontroll'd delight,
And general voice, the happy night,
That to the cottage, as the crown,
Brought tidings of salvation down.

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Alexander Wilson.

THOUGHTS IN A CHURCHYARD.

AGAIN, O Sadness! softening power, again

I woo thee, thoughtful, from this letter'd stone; And hail, thou comes! to view the dreary scene, Where ghastly Death has fixed his awful throne.

How lone, how solemn seems each view around?
I see, at distance, oh! distracting sight!
I see the tomb-the humbly grassy mound,
Where he now lies, once all my soul's delight!

A youth more generous, more humanely kind,
A friend more loving, or a heart more brave,
Ne'er breathed a being from the eternal mind,
Nor fell a victim to the cruel grave.

But cease, ye tears, nor thus incessant flow,

And still these tumults, oh! thou bleeding heart; Methinks his shade soft whispers, "Wait the blow, And soon we'll meet, ne'er, ne'er again to part."

Thoughts in a Churchyard.

Here stands the artist's tomb, in splendour rear'd,
And all the pomp surviving art can give;
But will hoar Time the pillar'd dome regard,
And shall its pride to endless ages live?

No-though the marble seems to start to life,
Though firm as rock the structure rears its head,
Time's cankering jaws will end the daring strife,
And lay it level with the unhonour'd dead.

Ye lonely heaps, ye bones, ye grim skulls, say,
Must I be stretch'd cold, lifeless in the dust;
Must this poor head be wrapt in putrid clay,

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And glare like you?—Ye murmur back—“ It must.”

Then what avail thy fleeting joys, O Time!

Thy bliss uncertain, when such truths are sure; May these scenes teach me to condemn this clime, And seek that bliss, those joys that shall endure.

These are thy spoils, thou grisly monarch, Death! Grim pleased thou stalks above the low-laid train; Each sculptured stone, each poor, low, grassy wreath, Thou eyes as trophies of thy dreadful fame.

But know, proud lord, thy reign shall have an end, Though nought on earth can now resist its force; Yet, shalt thou fall beneath a mightier hand,

And yield thy weapons, and thy meagre horse.