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Paused awhile to hear. "What good child is this," the angel said, "That with happy heart beside her bed Prays so lovingly?"

Low and soft, O, very low and soft, Crooned the blackbird in the orchard croft, "Bell, dear Bell!" crooned he.

"Whom God's creatures love," the angel fair Murmured, "God doth bless with angels' care; Child, thy bed shall be

Folded safe from harm. Love, deep and kind, Shall watch around and leave good gifts behind, Little Bell, for thee!"

THOMAS WESTWOOD.

A VISIT FROM ST. NICHOLAS.

'Twas the night before Christmas, when all through the house

Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse; The stockings were hung by the chimney with care, In hopes that St. Nicholas soon would be there: The children were nestled all snug in their beds, While visions of sugar-plums danced in their heads;

And mamma in her kerchief, and I in my cap, Had just settled our brains for a long winter's

nap,

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
I sprang from my bed to see what was the matter.
Away to the window I flew like a flash,
Tore open the shutters and threw up the sash.
The moon on the breast of the new-fallen snow
Gave a lustre of midday to objects below;
When, what to my wondering eyes should ap-
pear,

But a miniature sleigh and eight tiny reindeer,
With a little old driver, so lively and quick
I knew in a moment it must be St. Nick.
More rapid than eagles his coursers they came,
And he whistled and shouted, and called them
by name :

"Now, Dasher! now, Dancer! now, Prancer and Vixen !

On, Comet! on, Cupid! on, Donder and Blitzen!

To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall! Now dash away, dash away, dash away all!" As dry leaves that before the wild hurricane fly, When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to the house-top the coursers they flew, With the sleigh full of toys, - and St. Nicholas

too.

And then in a twinkling I heard on the roof
The prancing and pawing of each little hoof.

and soot ;

Snow.

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Miss GOULD,

As I drew in my head, and was turning around, | He went to the windows of those who slept, Down the chimney St. Nicholas came with a And over each pane like a fairy crept, bound.

Wherever he breathed, wherever he stepped, He was dressed all in fur from his head to his By the light of the moon were seen foot,

Most beautiful things. There were flowers and And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes trees,

There were bevies of birds and swarms of bees, A bundle of toys he had sung on his back, There were cities, thrones, temples, and towers, Anıl he looked like a pedler just opening his pack. and these His eyes how they twinkled ! his dimples how All pictured in silver sheen !

merry ! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry; But he did one thing that was hardly fair, llis droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, He peepal in the cupboard, and, finding there And the beard on his chin was as white as the That all had forgotten for him to prepare,

Now, just to set them a thinking,

I The stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth,

bite this basket of fruit,” said he ; And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. “This costly pitcher I 'll burst in three, He had a broad face and a little round belly

And the glass of water they 've left for me That shook, when he laughed, like a bowl full of

Shall · tchick !' to tell them I 'm drinking." jelly. He was chubby and plump, - a right jolly old elf; And I laughed, when I saw him, in spite of my

THE CLOUD. self. A wink of his eye and a twist of his head I BRING fresh showers for the thirsting flowers, Soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

From the seas and the streams ; He spoke not word, but went straight to his 1 bear light shade for the leaves when laid work,

In their noonday dreams. And filled all the stockings ; then turned with a From my wings are shaken the dews that waken jerk,

The sweet birds every one, And laying his finger aside of his nose,

When rocked to rest on their mother's breast, And giving a nod, up the chimney he rose.

As she dances about the sun. He sprang to his sleigh, to his team gave a whistle, I wield the flail of the lashing hail, And away they all flew like the down of a thistle ;

And whiten the green plains under; But I heard him exclaim, ere he drove out of sight, And then again I dissolve it in rain ; "Happy Christmas toall, and to alla good-night!" And laugh as I pass in thunder.

I sist the snow on the mountains below,

And their great pines groan aghast;

And all the night 't is my pillow white,
THE FROST.

While I sleep in the arms of the blast.
The Frost looked forth, one still, clear night, Sublime on the towers of my skyey bowers
And he said, “Now I shall be out of sight; Lightning, my pilot, sits;
So through the valley and over the height In a cavern under is fettered the thunder ;
In silence I 'll take my way.

It struggles and howls at fits.
I will not go like that blustering train,

Over earth and ocean, with gentle motion,
The wind and the snow, the hail and the rain, This pilot is guiding me,
Who make so much bustle and noise in vain, Lured by the love of the genii that move
But I 'll be as busy as they !”

In the depths of the purple sea ;

Over the rills and the crags and the hills, Then he went to the mountain, and powdered its

Over the lakes and the plains, crest,

Wherever he dream, under mountain or stream, He climbed up the trees, and their boughs he

The spirit he loves remains ; dressed

And I all the while bask in heaven's blue smile, With diamonds and pearls, and over the breast

Whilst he is dissolving in rains.
Of the quivering lake he spread
A coat of mail, that it need not fear

The sanguine sunrise, with his meteor eyes, The downward point of many a spear

And his burning plumes outspread, That he hung on its margin, far and near, Leaps on the back of my sailing rack, Where a rock could rear its head.

When the morning star shines dead.

CLEMENT C. MOORE.

As, on the jag of a mountain crag

Which an earthquake rocks and swings, An eagle, alit, one moment may sit

In the light of its golden wings;

O, IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,

And when sunset may breathe, from the lit sea To make the shifting clouds be what you please,

Or let the easily persuaded eyes

Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould
Of a friend's fancy; or, with head bent low,
And cheek aslant, see rivers flow of gold,
'Twixt crimson banks; and then a traveller go
From mount to mount, through Cloudland, gur-
geous land!

beneath,

Its ardors of rest and of love,

And the crimson pall of eve may fall

From the depth of heaven above,
With wings folded I rest on mine airy nest,
As still as a brooding dove.

That orbéd maiden with white fire laden,
Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o'er my fleece-like floor
By the midnight breezes strewn ;

And wherever the beat of her unseen feet,
Which only the angels hear,

May have broken the woof of my tent's thin roof,
The stars peep behind her and peer;
And I laugh to see them whirl and flee,

Like a swarm of golden bees,

When I widen the rent in my wind-built tent,
Till the calm river, lakes, and seas,
Like strips of the sky fallen through me on high,
Are each paved with the moon and these.

The sphere-fire above its soft colors wove,

While the moist earth was laughing below.

I bind the sun's throne with a burning zone,
And the moon's with a girdle of pearl;
The volcanoes are dim, and the stars reel and swim,
When the whirlwinds my banner unfurl.
From cape to cape, with a bridge-like shape,
Over a torrent sea,

Sunbeam-proof, I hang like a roof,

The mountains its columns be.
The triumphal arch, through which I march,
With hurricane, fire, and snow,

Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard
Are sweeter; therefore, ye soft pipes, play on ;

Is the million-colored bow;

When the powers of the air are chained to my chair, Not to the sensual ear, but, more endeared,
Pipe to the spirit ditties of no tone.
Fair youth beneath the trees, thou canst not leave
Thy song, nor ever can those trees be bare.
Bold lover, never, never canst thou kiss,
Though winning near the goal, yet do not grieve:
She cannot fade, though thou hast not thy

I am the daughter of the earth and water,
And the nursling of the sky;

I pass through the pores of the ocean and shores;
I change, but I cannot die.

For after the rain, when, with never a stain,
The pavilion of heaven is bare,

And the winds and sunbeams, with their convex

gleams,

Build up the blue dome of air,

I silently laugh at my own cenotaph,

And out of the caverns of rain,

Like a child from the womb, like a ghost from the tomb,

I rise and upbuild it again.

FANCY IN NUBIBUS.

PERCY BYsshe ShellEY.

Or, listening to the tide with closed sight,
Be that blind Bard, who on the Chian strand,
By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
Beheld the Iliad and the Odysse
Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

ODE ON A GRECIAN URN. THOU still unravished bride of quietness! Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time, Sylvan historian, who canst thus express

A flowery tale more sweetly than our rhyme: What leaf-fringed legend haunts about thy shape Of deities or mortals, or of both,

In Tempe or the dales of Arcady?

What men or gods are these? What maidens loath?

What mad pursuit? What struggles to escape!
What pipes and timbrels? What wild ecstasy?

---

bliss ;

Forever wilt thou love, and she be fair!

Ah, happy, happy boughs! that cannot shed
Your leaves, nor ever bid the spring adieu;
And happy melodist, unwearied,

Forever piping songs forever new;
More happy love! more happy, happy love!
Forever warm and still to be enjoyed,

Forever panting and forever young;
All breathing human passion far above,
That leaves a heart high-sorrowful and cloyed,
A burning forehead, and a parching tongue.

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THERE the most daintie paradise on ground
Itselfe doth offer to his sober eye,

In which all pleasures plenteously abownd,
And none does others happinesse envye;
The painted flowres; the trees upshooting hye;
The dales for shade; the hilles for breathing
space;

The tremblinggroves; the christall running by; And, that which all faire workes doth most aggrace,

The art, which all that wrought, appeared in no place.

One would have thought (so cunningly the rude And scorned partes were mingled with the fine) That Nature had for wantonesse ensude Art, and that Art at Nature did repine; So striving each th' other to undermine, Each did the others worke more beautify; So diff'ring both in willes agreed in fine : So all agreed, through sweete diversity, This gardin to adorne with all variety.

And in the midst of all a fountaine stood, Of richest substance that on earth might bee, So pure and shiny that the silver flood Through every channell running one might see; Most goodly it with curious ymageree Was over-wrought, and shapes of naked boyes, Of which some seemed with lively iollitee To fly about, playing their wanton toyes, Whylest others did themselves embay in liquid

ioyes.

And over all of purest gold was spred
A trayle of yvie in his native hew;
For the rich metall was so coloured,
That wight, who did not well avis'd it vew,
Would surely deeme it to bee yvie trew :
Low his lascivious armes adown did creepe,
That, themselves dipping in the silver dew
Their fleecy flowres they fearefully did steepe,
Which drops of christall seemed for wantones to
weep.

Infinit streames continually did well
Out of this fountaine, sweet and faire to see,
The which into an ample laver fell,
And shortly grew to so great quantitie,
That like a little lake it seemd to bee;
Whose depth exceeded not three cubits hight,
That through the waves one might the bottom

see,

All pav'd beneath with iaspar shining bright, That seemd the fountaine in that sea did sayle

upright.

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