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, Oh! why should this thy soul elate? Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, 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 therefore is my soul elate. War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, "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 Then wisely is my soul elate, That strife should vanish, battle cease; I'm poor, and of a low estate, The Mother of the Prince of Peace! Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn; Peace, peace on earth! the Prince of Peace is born!" ROBERT SOUTHEY. ROBERT SOUTHEY, LL. D., was born in Bristol on the 12th of August, 1774, and was educated at Baliol College, with the design of his entering the church. His career at Oxford was a brief one; his tendency towards Socinianism made the plan marked out for him disagreeable; and he returned to Bristol, where, in 1794, in conjunction with a friend, he published his first collection of poems. His heterodox notions in religion and politics disappeared in a few years, and applying his great abilities to literature, he gradually rose to the first rank of the authors of his country. He died at Keswick on the 21st of March, 1843, in the sixty-eighth year of his age. The best edition of the Poetical Works of Southey is that published in New York by Messrs. Appleton, in one very large octavo volume, with all his latest revisions, and his posthumous pieces. LOVE. THEY sin who tell us love can die; All others are but vanity. In heaven ambition cannot dwell, Nor avarice in the vaults of hell: Earthly these passions, as of earth, They perish where they have their birth. Its holy flame forever burneth, From heaven it came, to heaven returneth; At times deceived, at times oppressed, It here is tried and purified, And hath in heaven its perfect rest : The day of wo, the anxious night, For all her sorrow, all her tears, An over-payment of delight? AFFLICTION. METHINKS if ye would know How visitations of calamity Affect the pious soul, 'tis shown you here. Look yonder at that cloud, which, through the sky Sailing along, doth cross in her career The rolling moon. I watched it as it came, And deemed the deep opaque would blot her beams; REMEMBRANCE. MAN hath a weary pilgrimage, As through the world he wends; With heaviness he casts his eye And still remembers with a sigh The days that are no more. Torn from his mother's arms: What then shall soothe his earliest woes? And cares where love has no concern, From hard control and tyrant rules, The child's sad thoughts will roam, Youth comes: the toils and cares of life Torment the restless mind; Where shall the tired and harassed heart Then is not Youth, as Fancy tells, Maturer Manhood now arrives, And other thoughts come on; But, with the baseless hopes of Youth, So reaches he the latter stage With feeble step and slow; The days that are no more. WILLIAM HERBERT. THE Hon. and Rev. William Herbert, the late Dean of Manchester, was the third son of Henry Earl of Caernarvon, and father of Mr. Henry William Herbert, of Newark in New Jersey. He was one of the most thoroughly accomplished men of his time, and his numerous works illustrate large abilities, fine taste, and an honorable character. His most celebrated poem is "Attila," which with his other original ind translated poems has recently been published in three volumes, octavo. Mr. Herbert was born in 1778, and died in 1846. HYMN то DEATH. WHAT art thou, O relentless visitant, With shuddering horror from the dreaded range Or weariness of being, into the abyss! And should we call those blest who journey on Successful, unto the allotted term Of threescore years and ten, even so strong, That they exceed it? or those, who are brought down Ephemeral, children of the vernal beam, Just flutter round the sweets of life and die ?— An awful term thou art; and still must be, |