ADDRESSED TO THE REV. DR. WORDSWORTH.

WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.

HE Minstrels played their Christmas tune
To-night beneath my cottage eaves;
While, smitten by a lofty moon,

The encircling laurels, thick with leaves,
Gave back a rich and dazzling sheen,
That overpowered their natural green.

Through hill and valley every breeze

Had sunk to rest with folded wings: Keen was the air, but could not freeze, Nor check the music of the strings;

So stout and hardy were the band

That scraped the chords with strenuous hand!

CHRISTMAS MINSTRELSY.

And who but listened?-till was paid
Respect to every inmate's claim :
The greeting given, the music played,
In honour of each household name,
Duly pronounced with lusty call,
And "merry Christmas" wished to all!

O brother! I revere the choice

That took thee from thy native hills;

And it is given thee to rejoice:

Though public care full often tills Heaven only witness of the toil)

A barren and ungrateful soil.

Yet, would that Thou, with me and mine, Hadst heard this never-failing rite;

And seen on other faces shine

A true revival of the light,

Which Nature and these rustic powers,
In simple childhood, spread through ours!

For pleasure hath not ceased to wait

On these expected annual rounds; Whether the rich man's sumptuous gate Call forth the unclaborate sounds,

Or they are offered at the door

That guards the lowliest of the poor.

How touching, when, at midnight, sweep Snow-muffled winds, and all is dark,

To hear and sink again to sleep!

Or, at an earlier call, to mark, By blazing fire, the still suspense Of self-complacent innocence.

The mutual nod,-the grave disguise

Of hearts with gladness brimming o'er ;

And some unbidden tears that rise

For names once heard, and heard no more; Tears brightened by the serenade

For infant in the cradle laid.

Ah! not for emerald fields alone,

With ambient streams more pure and bright

Than fabled Cytherea's zone

Glittering before the Thunderer's sight,

Is to my heart of hearts endeared

The ground where we were born and reared!

Hail, ancient Manners! sure defence,

Where they survive, of wholesome laws;

Remnants of love whose modest sense

Thus into narrow room withdraws;

Hail, Usages of pristine mould,

And ye that guard them, Mountains old!

Bear with me, Brother! quench the thought
That slights this passion, or condemns;

If thee fond Fancy ever brought

From the proud margin of the Thames, And Lambeth's venerable towers,

To humbler streams and greener bowers.

Yes, they can make, who fail to find,

Short leisure even in busiest days;

Moments, to cast a look behind,

And profit by those kindly rays

That through the clouds do sometimes steal,
And all the far-off past reveal.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Hence, while the imperial City's din

Beats frequent on thy satiate ear,

A pleased attention I may win
To agitations less severe,
That neither overwhelm nor cloy,
But fill the hollow vale with joy!

Religious Carols.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

SAMUEL T. COLERIDGE.

THE shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable shed

Where the virgin mother lay:

And now they checked their eager tread, For, to the babe that at her bosom clung, A mother's song the virgin mother sung.

They told her how a glorious light,

Streaming from a heavenly throng, Around them shone, suspending night!

While, sweeter than a mother's song, Blest angels heralded the Saviour's birth, Glory to God on high! and peace on earth.

She listened to the tale divine,

And closer still the babe she pressed : And while she cried, the babe is mine!

The milk rushed faster to her breast:

Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;

Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

Thou mother of the Prince of Peace,

Poor, simple, and of low estate, That strife should vanish, battle cease,

O why should this thy soul elate?

Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story,-
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

And is not war a youthful king,

A stately hero clad in mail? Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;

Him earth's majestic monarchs hail

Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.

"Tell this in some more courtly scene,

To maids and youths in robes of state!

I am a woman poor and mean,

And, therefore, is my soul clate.

War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
That from the aged father tears his child!

"A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,

He kills the sire and starves the son;

The husband kills, and from her board

Steals all his widow's toil had won?

Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

"Then wisely is my soul elate,

That strife should vanish, battle cease: