O! Thou, by whom we come to God,
The Life, the Truth, the Way;
The path of prayer thyself hast trod;
Lord, teach us how to pray.

CHRISTMAS CAROL.

Mrs. Hemans.

O LOVELY Voices of the sky,
That hymn'd the Saviour's birth!
Are ye not singing still on high,
Ye that sang, "Peace on earth ?"
To us yet speak the strains
Wherewith, in days gone by,
Ye bless'd the Syrian swains,

O Voices of the sky!

O clear and shining Light, whose beams
That hour Heaven's glory shed
Around the palms, and o'er the streams,
And on the shepherds' head;

Be near, thro' life and death,
As in that holiest night
Of hope, and joy, and faith,
O clear and shining Light!

O Star which led to Him, whose love

Brought down man's ransom free; Where art thou ?—'Midst the hosts above, May we still gaze on thee?—

In heaven thou art not set,

Thy rays earth might not dim

Send them to guide us yet,

O Star which led to him!

ODE TO POVERTY.

The following is the production of a humble Scottish rustic, William Park, who acts as farm-servant, or "minister's man," to the Rev. Mr. Brown of Eskdale Muir. That sentiments so refined, and thoughts so profound, should reside in a peasant, whose opportunities of improving his mind are probably of the most limited nature, is in itself most wonderful, and proves, if proof were wanting, how highly the rural people of Scotland are exalted in the scale of intellect. It also proves a far more important thing that there is no lot so mean but it may be ennobled by virtuous feeling, and the triumphs of inborn genius.

HAIL! mighty power! who o'er my lot

Presidest uncontroll'd and free;

Sole ruler of the rural cot,

I bid thee hail, dread Poverty!

Thine aid I crave to guide my strain,
Nor shall I supplicate in vain.

When, on this world of woe and toil,
A helpless stranger I was cast,
Like mariner on desert isle,

The sport and victim of the blast,
Thy russet robe was o'er me flung,
And to thy cold lean hand I clung.

In youth I felt thy guardian care,
Each saving, self-denying rule,
Awful for those of fortune spare,

I learnt and practised in thy school;
And of my lengthen'd life at large,
Thou still hast taken special charge.

Much have I seen-much more I've heard, Of chance and change in this vain world; The low to high estate preferr'd—

From high estate the haughty hurl'd; But chance or change ne'er pass'd o'er me→ I'm still thy subject, Poverty!

Oh, how unwise are they who scorn
Thy homely garb and homely fare;
Who scale the tropic's burning bourne,
Ideal happiness to share!

They tread the wild, and plough the wave,
In quest of gold—but find a grave.

There are who know thee but by name,

Who spurn thy salutary laws,

And count thy badge a mark of shame,
And hold it sin to own thy cause.
Fools that they are! they never knew
Thy guiltless pride-thy spirit true.

Full oft in danger's darkest day

Thy sons have proved their country's shield, When wealth's effeminate array

Appear'd not on the battle field :—

'Twas theirs to grasp the patriot brand, That dropp'd from Luxury's nerveless hand.

Full oft, where wealth-engender'd crime
Roll'd o'er the land its whelming tide,
Their fervent faith and hope sublime

Have stable proved, though sorely tried:
In virtue's heavenward path they trode,
When Pleasure's sons forsook their God.

And yet nor stone, nor poet's strain,

Records their honours undefiled;

Even poesy would weave in vain

The laurel wreath for Penury's child;

Should Fashion sneer, or Fortune frown, "Twould wither ere the sun went down.

But greater, happier, far is he,

More ample his reward of praiseThough he should Misery's kinsman be, Though hardships cloud his early daysWho triumphs in temptation's hour, Than he who wins the warlike tower.

What though he may not write his name On History's ever-living page!

What though the thrilling trump of Fame Echo it not from age to age!

'Tis blazon'd bright in realms on high, Enroll'd in records of the sky.

What though the hireling bard be mute,
When humble worth for notice calls;
There wants not voice of harp or lute

To hymn it high in heavenly halls :
Around the cell where Virtue weeps,
His nightly watch the seraph keeps.

If peace of mind your thoughts employ,

Ye restless, murmuring sons of earth! Ah! shun the splendid haunts of joy,

Peace dwells not with unholy mirth,