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His colour sicken'd more and more,

He faded into age;

And then his enemies began

To show their deadly rage.

They took a weapon long and sharp,
And cut him by the knee;
Then tied him fast upon a cart,
Like a rogue for forgery.

They laid him down upon his back,
And cudgel'd him full sore;
They hung him up before the storm,
And turn'd him o'er and o'er.

They fill'd up then a darksome pit
With water to the brim,
And heaved in poor John Barleycorn,
To let him sink or swim.

They laid him out upon the floor,
To work him further woe;
And still, as signs of life appear'd,
They toss'd him to and fro.

They wasted o'er a scorching flame
The marrow of his bones;

But the miller used him worst of all,

For he crush'd him between two stones.

And they have taken his very heart's blood,
And drunk it round and round:

And so farewell, John Barleycorn!
Thy fate thou now hast found.

THE FIRST GRIEF.

By Mrs. HEMANS.

"ОH! call my brother back to me, I cannot play alone;

The summer comes with flower and beeWhere is my brother gone?

"The butterfly is glancing bright
Across the sunbeam's track;

I care not now to chase its flight-
Oh! call my brother back.

"The flowers run wild-the flowers we sow'd

Around our garden-tree;

Our vine is drooping with its load-

Oh! call him back to me.

"He would not hear my voice, fair child!
He may not come to thee;

The face that once like spring-time smiled
On earth no more thou'lt see!

"A rose's brief bright life of joy,
Such unto him was given;
Go-thou must play alone, my boy-

Thy brother is in heaven!"

"And has he left the birds and flowers,
And must I call in vain;

And through the long, long summer hours,
Will he not come again?

"And by the brook, and in the glade,
Are all our wanderings o'er ?
Oh! "while my brother with me play'd,
Would I had loved him more!"

BURIAL OF THE DEAD.

From KEBLE's Christian Year.

"And when the Lord saw her, He had compassion on her, and said unto her, Weep not. And He came and touched the bier; and they that bare him stood still. And He said, Young man, I say unto thee, Arise."-St. Luke vii. 13, 14.

Who says the wan autumnal sun

Beams with too faint a smile

To light up Nature's face again,

And, though the year be on the wane,
With thoughts of Spring the heart beguile?

Waft him, thou soft September breeze,
And gently lay him down

Within some circling woodland wall,

Where bright leaves, reddening e'er they fall,
Wave gaily o'er the waters brown.

And if some tones be false or low,
What are all prayers beneath
But cries of babes, that cannot know
Half the deep thought they breathe ?

In His own words we Christ adore,
But angels, as we speak,

Higher above our meaning soar
Than we o'er children weak.

And yet His words mean more than they,

And yet He owns their praise:

Why should we think He turns away
From infants' simple lays?

HYMN TO THE NATIVITY.

This, the most magnificent Hymn in our language, is by MILTON.

Ir was the winter wild,

While the heaven-born child,

All meanly wrapt in the rude manger lies: Nature, in awe to him,

Hath doff'd her gaudy trim,

With her great Master so to sympathise :

It was no season then for her

To wanton with the sun, her lusty paramour.

Only with speeches fair

She wooes the gentle air

To hide her guilty front with innocent snow; And on her naked shame,

Pollute with sinful blame,

The saintly veil of maiden white to throw; Confounded, that her Maker's eyes

Should look so near upon her foul deformities.

But he, her fears to cease,

Sent down the meek-eyed Peace;

She, crown'd with olive green, came softly sliding Down through the turning sphere,

His ready harbinger,

With turtle wing the amorous clouds dividing; And, waving wide her myrtle wand,

She strikes a universal peace through sea and land.

Nor war nor battle's sound

Was heard the world around:

The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood

Unstain'd with hostile blood;

The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye,

As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night

Wherein the Prince of Light

His reign of peace upon the earth began: The winds, with wonder whist,

Smoothly the waters kiss'd,

Whispering new joys to the mild ocean;

Who now hath quite forgot to rave,

While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars, with deep amaze,

Stand fix'd in steadfast gaze,

Bending one way their precious influence;

And will not take their flight,

For all the morning light,

Or Lucifer that often warn'd them thence;

But in their glimmering orbs did glow,

Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

And, though the shady gloom

Had given day her room,

The sun himself withheld his wonted speed,

And hid his head for shame,

As his inferior flame

The new-enlighten'd world no more should need;

He saw a greater sun appear

Than his bright throne, or burning axle-tree, could bear.

The shepherds on the lawn,

Or ere the point of dawn,

Sat simply chatting in a rustic row; Full little thought they then

That the mighty Pan

Was kindly come to live with them below; Perhaps their loves, or else their sheep,

Was all that did their silly thoughts so busy keep.

When such music sweet

Their hearts and ears did greet,

As never was by mortal finger strook;

Divinely warbled voice

Answer'd the stringed noise,

As all their souls in blissful rapture took;

The air, such pleasure loath to lose,

With thousand echoes still prolongs each heavenly close.

Nature that heard such sound,

Beneath the hollow round

Of Cynthia's seat, the aery region thrilling,

Now was almost won

To think her part was done,

And that her reign had here its last fulfilling ; She knew such harmony alone

Could hold all heaven and earth in happier union.

At last surrounds their sight

A globe of circular light,

That with long beams the shamefaced night array'd; The helmed Cherubim,

And sworded Seraphim,

Are seen in glittering ranks with wings display'd, Harping in loud and solemn quire,

With unexpressive notes, to Heaven's new-born Heir.

Such music (as 'tis said)

Before was never made,

But when of old the sons of morning sung,

While the Creator great

His Constellations set,

And the well-balanced world on hinges hung;

And cast the dark foundations deep,

And bid the weltering waves their oozy channel keep.

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