A HYMN FOR CHRISTMAS DAY.

AND art Thou come, dear Saviour? Hath thy love

Thus made thee stoop, and leave thy throne above,
The lofty heavens, and thus thyself to dress
In dust, to visit mortals? Could no less
A condescension serve ?-And after all,
The mean reception of a cratch"-
-a stall P
Dear Lord, I'll fetch thee thence.-I have a room,
'Tis poor, but 'tis my best; if thou wilt come
Within so poor a cell, where I would fain,
Mine, and the world's Redeemer entertain-
1 mean my heart: 'tis filthy I confess;
And will not mend thy lodging, Lord, unless
Thou send before thy harbinger-I mean
Thy pure and purging grace, to make it clean,
And sweep its inmost corners: then I'll try
To wash it also with a weeping eye.

And when 'tis swept and wash'd, I then will go, And with thy leave, I'll fetch some flowers that grow

In thine own garden-Faith and Love to thee.
With these I'll dress it up, and these shall be
My Rosemary and Bays: yet when my best
Is done, the room's not fit for such a guest.
But here's the cure-thy presence, Lord, alone,
Will make the stall a court-the cratch a throne.
SIR MATTHEW HALE.

• Cratch is an old word for manger.

PAUL ACCUSED BEFORE THE ROMAN
GOVERNOR OF JUDEA.

THE Judge ascended to the judgment-seat:
Amid a gleam of spears the Apostle stood.
Dauntless he forward came, and looked around,
And raised his voice, at first in accents low,
Yet clear; -a whisper spread among the throng :-
So when the thunder mutters, still the breeze
Is heard, at times, to sigh; but when the peal,
Tremendous, louder rolls, a silence dead
Succeeds each pause,- moveless the aspen leaf.
Thus fixed and motionless, the listening band
Of soldiers forward leaned, as from the man,
Inspired of God, truth's awful thunders rolled.
No more he feels, upon his high-raised arm,
The ponderous chain, than does the playful child
The bracelets, formed of many a flowery link.
Heedless of self, forgetful that his life
Is now to be defended by his words,
He only thinks of doing good to them
Who seek his life; and while he reasons high
Of justice, temperance, and the life to come,
The judge shrinks trembling at the prisoner's
voice.

GRAHAME.

TO MARY.

MARY!-it is a lovely name
Thrice honoured in the rolls of fame,
Not for the pride of royal birth,
Nor honours springing from the earth,

But what Evangelists have told
Of three who bore that name of old :-
Mary, the mother of our Lord,
Mary, who sate to hear his word,
And Mary Magdelan, to whom
Christ came, while weeping o'er his tomb;
These to that humble name supply
A glory which can never die.
Mary! my prayer for you shall be,
May you resemble all the three,
In faith, and hope, and charity -

J. MONTGOMERY.

HUMILITY.

THE bird that soars on the highest wing
Builds on the ground her lowly nest;
And she that doth most sweetly sing,
Sings in the shade when all things rest:
In lark and nightingale we see
What honour hath humility.

When Mary chose the better part,

She meekly sat at Jesus' feet; And Lydia's gently opened heart

Was made for God's own temple meet; Fairest and best adorned is she

Whose clothing is humility.

The saint that wears heaven's brightest crown, In deepest adoration bends;

The weight of glory bears him down

The most when most his soul ascends; Nearest the throne itself must be

The footstool of humility.

J. MONTGOMERY.

THE WAY SIDE FOUNTAIN.

I ASS'D as once I journey'd on a long and lonesome way,

A fountain, form'd that travellers might their fever'd thirst allay;

By ancient trees t'was shadow'd o'er, and pleasantly it stood,

And ever from its side did pour a cool and crystal flood.

And many way-worn pilgrims, by the noon tide heat oppress'd,

Had halted near the gushing stream to pass their hour of rest;

Unsandall'd were their swollen feet, each scrip was laid aside,

And gratefully they kneel'd to drink the renovating tide.

And some were there whose feet were soil'd with travel from afar,

And some whose hands were mark'd with stains, acquired in recent war;

Bending beside the cleansing stream, they wash'd each stain away,

And blessing him that built the fount, proceeded on their way.

Beside the grateful shade apart, a widow'd mother staid,

Beneath the soft and verdant turf, her only son was laid;

"Fair is thy resting place," she said, as through her tears she smiled;

Would I were with thee laid beneath that pleasant sod, my child.

A graven tablet o'er the fount in grateful accents told

Of some whose friendly hands repair'd it, when defaced of old :

Defiled and choked had been the stream-the spoiler they withstood,

In its defence the best of earth had pour'd their valued blood..

England!-this fountain is thy Church; for ages hath she been

To thy sinning, sighing, sorrowing sons a soulrefreshing stream;

Pleasant have been the hours they pass'd beneath her holy shade,

And round about her hallow'd walls their best beloved are laid.

Again the spoiler threatens; canst thou guiltless stand to see

Polluted or impair'd the fount thy fathers left to thee ?

They to their sons the sacred trust unsullied did resign;

See that thou fail not to bequeath it unimpair'd to thine. E