But of all the cheap treasures that garnish my nest,
There's one that I love and I cherish the best;
For the finest of couches that's padded with hair
I never would change thee, my cane-bottomed chair.
'Tis a bandy-legged, high-shouldered, worm-eaten seat,
With a creaking old back and twisted old feet;
But since the fair morning when Fanny sat there
I bless thee and love thee, old cane-bottomed chair.

It was but a moment she sat in this place,

She'd a scarf on her neck, and a smile on her face,

A smile on her face and a rose in her hair,

And she sat there and bloomed in my cane-bottomed chair.

And so I have valued my chair ever since

Like the shrine of a saint, or the throne of a prince;
Saint Fanny my patroness sweet I declare,

The queen of my heart and my cane-bottomed chair.

When the candles burn low, and the company's gone,
In the silence of night as I sit here alone-
I sit here alone, but we yet are a pair-
My Fanny I see in my cane-bottomed chair.

She comes from the past and revisits my room;
She looks as she then did, all beauty and bloom;
So smiling and tender, so fresh and so fair,
And yonder she sits in my cane-bottomed chair.

[THE omission of any poetry from "The Christian Year," in a collection of "Favourite English Poems," would be an injustice to our compilation, although its scope hardly admits of the ordinary hymn, but many of the leading pieces of Mr. Keble's treasured volume come strictly within our definition, and his recent decease seems to give additional claim to one or two of them being included.

The author was educated at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, and took first-class honours; he became a fellow of Oriel, where he was the contemporary and friend of Dr. Arnold; after discharging for some years the posts of tutor at Oriel, and public examiner in the University, and finally that of professor of poetry, he was preferred to the rectory of Hursley, near Winchester, which he held until his death. His far-famed and well beloved "Christian Year" was first published in 1827, and is now in its 60th edition. Editions have been provided to suit every taste and means, and in this respect nothing can more strongly evince the attention of the publisher than his recent venture of printing a facsimile of the first edition to meet the wishes of amateurs. The author's "Lyra Innocentium" appeared in 1847.]

MORNING.

HUES of the rich unfolding morn,

That, ere the glorious sun be born,

By some soft touch invisible

Around his path are taught to swell;

Thou rustling breeze so fresh and gay,
That dancest forth at opening day,
And brushing by with joyous wing,
Wakenest each little leaf to sing;--

Ye fragrant clouds of dewy steam,
By which deep grove and tangled stream
Pay, for soft rains in season given,
Their tribute to the genial heaven;-

Why waste your treasures of delight
Upon our thankless, joyless sight;
Who day by day to sin awake,
Seldom of Heaven and you partake?

Oh! timely happy, timely wise,
Hearts that with rising morn arise!
Eyes that the beam celestial view,

Which evermore makes all things new?

New every morning is the love

Our wakening and uprising prove;

Through sleep and darkness safely brought,
Restor'd to life, and power, and thought.

New mercies, each returning day,
Hover around us while we pray;

New perils past, new sins forgiven,

New thoughts of God, new hopes of Heaven.

If on our daily course our mind

Be set to hallow all we find,

New treasures still, of countless price,

God will provide for sacrifice.

Old friends, old scenes, will lovelier be,

As more of Heaven in each we see:
Some softening gleam of love and prayer
Shall dawn on every cross and care.

As for some dear familiar strain
Untir'd we ask, and ask again,
Ever, in its melodious store,
Finding a spell unheard before;

Such is the bliss of souls serene,

When they have sworn, and steadfast mean,
Counting the cost, in all t' espy
Their God, in all themselves deny.

O could we learn that sacrifice,
What lights would all around us rise!
How would our hearts with wisdom talk
Along Life's dullest dreariest walk!

We need not bid, for cloister'd cell,
Our neighbour and our work farewell,
Nor strive to wind ourselves too high
For sinful man beneath the sky:

The trivial round, the common task,
Would furnish all we ought to ask;
Room to deny ourselves; a road
To bring us, daily, nearer God.

Seek we no more; content with these,
Let present Rapture, Comfort, Ease,

As Heaven shall bid them, come and go :-
The secret this of Rest below.

Only, O Lord, in Thy dear love
Fit us for perfect Rest above;
And help us, this and every day,
To live more nearly as we pray.

EVENING.

"TIS gone, that bright and orbèd blaze, Fast fading from our wistful gaze; Yon mantling cloud has hid from sight The last faint pulse of quivering light.

In darkness and in weariness

The traveller on his way must press,
No gleam to watch on tree or tower,
Whiling away the lonesone hour.

Sun of my soul! Thou Saviour dear,
It is not night if Thou be near:
Oh! may no earth-born cloud arise
To hide Thee from Thy servant's eyes.
When round Thy wondrous works below
My searching rapturous glance I throw,
Tracing out Wisdom, Power, and Love,
In earth or sky, in stream or grove ;-
Or by the light Thy words disclose
Watch Time's full river as it flows,
Scanning Thy gracious Providence,
Where not too deep for mortal sense :-

When with dear friends sweet talk I hold,
And all the flowers of life unfold;
Let not my heart within me burn,
Except in all I Thee discern.

When the soft dews of kindly sleep
My wearied eyelids gently steep,
Be my last thought, how sweet to rest
For ever on my Saviour's breast.