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And then he turned unto the book,
And read, in English plain,
How Christ had died on Calvary,
How he had risen again ;

And all his comfortable words,
His deeds of mercy all,
He read, and of the widow's mite,
And the poor prodigal.

As water to the parched soil,
As to the hungry bread,
So fell upon the woodman's soul
Each word the pilgrim read!

Thus thro' the midnight did they read
Until the dawn of day,

And then came in the woodman's son
To fetch the book away.

All quick and troubled was his speech,
His face was pale with dread,

For he said, the King had made a law That the book should not be read—

For it was such fearful heresy,

The holy Abbot said.'

MIDNIGHT HYMN.

Anon:

STAR-GEMMED floor of the land I love,
Tell me, and tell me now,

What are the many glittering pearls,
Which hang on thy jewelled brow?

Schoolmen write in the lettered page,
That each is a world like ours,
Where sky-birds sing their melodious songs
In more delightful bowers:

Where the wolf and the lamb in concord meet, Where the leopard harmless lives;

And where, undewed with the sweat of man, The field its harvest gives:

Where sin hath shed no withering blight,
Where death no entrance gains,
Where the men of a thousand years ago
Still bound across the plains.

Many, if such ye be, fair worlds,
Would ask no higher boon
Than within your gorgeous palaces
To find a lasting home.

So let them! More ambitious, I
More towering wishes frame;

I would not dwell in these, but with
The Lord of all of them.

They may be near to the pearly gates,
They may stand close to heaven;
But who would live in the servant's lodge,
If the mansion-house were given!

THE WOOD-CUTTER'S SONG.
J. Clare.

WELCOME, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.

Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till to-morrow morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there.

Though to leave your pretty song,
Little birds, it gives me pain,

Yet to-morrow is not long,
Then I'm with you all again.

If I stop and stare about,

Well I know how things will be, Judy will be looking out

Every now and then for me.

So, fare ye well! and hold your tongues,
Sing no more until I come;
They're not worthy of your songs
That never care to drop a crumb.

All day long I love the oaks ;
But at night yon little cot,
Where I see the chimney smokes,
Is by far the prettiest spot.

Wife and children all are there,
To revive with pleasant looks;
Table ready set and chair;
Supper hanging on the hooks.

Soon as ever I get in,

When my faggot down I fling, Little prattlers, they begin Teasing me to talk and sing.

Welcome, red and roundy sun,
Dropping lowly in the west;
Now my hard day's work is done,
I'm as happy as the best.

Joyful are the thoughts of home,
Now I'm ready for my chair,
So, till to-morrow morning's come,
Bill and mittens, lie ye there!

FAREWELL TO THE MUSE.

Walter Scott.

HARP of the North, farewell! The hills grow dark,

On purple peaks a deeper shade descending; In twilight copse the glowworm lights her spark :

The deer half seen are to the covert wending. Resume thy wizard elm! the fountain lending And the wild breeze thy wilder minstrelsy; Thy numbers sweet with Nature's vespers blending,

With distant echo from the fold and lea, And herd-boy's evening pipe, and hum of housing bee.

Yet once again, farewell, thou minstrel harp! Yet once again forgive my feeble sway; And little reck I of the censure sharp

May idly cavil at an idle lay.

Much have I owed thy strains on life's long

way

Thro' secret woes the world has never known,

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