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Taken from a Philadelphia magazine, where it appeared as the composition of the Rev. E. H. SEARS.

It came upon the midnight clear,

That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth

To touch their harps of gold :-
“Peace on the earth-goodwill to men

From Heaven's all-gracious King,"
The world in solemn stillness lay

To hear the angels sing.

Still through the cloven skies they come,

With peaceful wings unfurld,
And still their heavenly music floats

O'er all the weary world ;
Above its sad and lowly plains

They bend on heavenly wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds,

The blessed angels sing !

Yet with the woes of sin and strife,

The world had suffer'd long,
Beneath the angel-strain have rollid

Two thousand wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not

The love-song which they bring,
O hush the noise, ye men of strife,

And hear the angels sing !

years of

And ye, beneath life's crushing road

Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way

With painful steps and slow;
Look now! for glad and golden hours

Come swiftly on the wing,
O rest beside the weary road,

And hear the angels sing!

For lo, the days are hastening on

By prophet bards foretold,
When with the ever circling years

Comes round the age of gold ;
When peace shall over all the earth

Its ancient splendours fling,
And the whole world send back the song

Which now the angels sing !


Another extract from the new volumes of Poems by ROBERT BROWNING, entitled Men and Women. (Chapman and Hall.)

BEAUTIFUL Evelyn Hope is dead

Sit and watch by her side an hour.
That is her book-shelf, this her bed ;

She pluck'd that piece of geranium-flower,
Beginning to die too, in the glass.

Little has yet been changed, I think-
The shutters are shut, no light may pass

Save two long rays through the hinge's chink.
Sixteen years old when she died !

Perhaps she had scarcely heard my name-
It was not her time to love : beside,

Her life had many a hope and aim,
Duties enough and little cares,

And now was quiet, now astir-
Till God's hand beckon'd unawares,

And the sweet white brow is all of her.

Is it too late, then, Evelyn Hope ?

What, your soul was pure and true,
The good stars met in your horoscope,

Made you of spirit, fire and dew=
And just because I was thrice as old,

And our paths in the world diverged so wide,
Each was nought to each, must I be told ?

We were fellow mortals, nought beside ?

No, indeed! for God above

Is great to grant, as mighty to make, And creates the love to reward the love,

I claim you still, for my own love's sake! Delay'd it may be for more lives yet,

Through worlds I shall traverse, not a fewMuch is to learn and much to forget

Ere the time be come for taking you.

But the time will come—at last it will

When, Evelyn Hope, what meant, I shall say, In the lower earth, in the years long still,

That body and soul so pure and gay ? Why your hair was amber I shall divine,

mouth of your own geranium's red, And what you would do with me, in fine,

In the new life come in the old one's stead.

And your

I have lived, I shall say, so much since then,

Given up myself so many times, Gain'd me the the gains of various men,

Ransack'd the ages, spoil'd the climes ;
Yet one thing, one,

soul's full

Either I miss'd or itself miss'd me-
And I want and find you, Evelyn Hope !

What is the issue ? Let us see.

I loved you, Evelyn, all the while;

My heart seem'd full as it could hold ; There was place and to spare for the frank young smile

And the red young mouth and the hair's young gold. So, hush, I will give you this leaf to keep;

See, I shut it inside the sweet cold hand. There, that is our secret! go to sleep ;

You will wake, and remember, and understand.



The river rushes—the river falls-

The sparkling, bounding, breathless river-
To moors, and rocks, and heights it calls,

And runs its glittering course for ever.
It sings its merriest morning song,

Its psalm at noon, its hymn at even ;
" Thanks! thanks!”—for even to it belong

Some blessings of a bounteous Heaven.
Perhaps it owns some (unknown) boon-

Such joy as tends the herb and flower,
Opening the lily's heart in June,

Yielding the rose its crimson dower ;
Such life as in the mountain pine

Confronts the storm, outlasts the thunder;-
Such life—such strength, perhaps, are thine,

O river! who dost wake no wonder,
Because, like all things good and great,

Thou minglest with each joy and sorrow,
And each day comest without state,

Bidding the thankless world “Good morrow !”


From a volume recently published in America, entitled National Miscellanies, by Mr. DUGANNE, containing much that is beautiful, amid more that is extravagant and incoherent.

I sit beside my gentle one:

Her band is laid in mine;
And thus we watch the parting sun

In golden haze decline.
Across the fields the shadows creep,


the misty hill ;
And we our twilight vigils keep,

At our own cottage-sill.

The distant brooklet's murmurs come,

Like bell-notes through the leaves ;
And many an insect's mazy hum

Its dreamy music weaves.
The dove's last note, in rippling beats,

Upon the air departs ;
The breath of all our garden sweets

Is creeping to our hearts.
The russet woodbine round our porch

In clustering ringlets twines;
The honeysuckle's crimson torch

Gleams through the dusty vines ;
The sunset rays are trembling now

Amid the trellis-bars-
They paint upon my darling's brow

A glory like the stars.
Her cheek is nestling on my breast,

Her eyes are bright with tears ;

half-breathed and half-represt, My listening spirit hears. Oh ! blessed be the changeless love

"That glorifies my life! All doubt, all fear, all guile above

My own true-hearted wife !


Fill’n is life's goblet to the brim;
And though my eyes with tears are dim,
I see its sparkling bubbles swim,
And chant a melancholy hymn

With solemn voice and slow.

No purple flowers, no garlands green,
Conceal the goblet's shade or sheen;
Nor maddening draughts of Hippocrene,
Like gleams of sunshine, flash between

Thick leaves of mistletoe.

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