JEREMY TAYLOR, the learned and good bishop of Down and Connor, was born at Cambridge in 1613, and died at Lisburn, Ireland, Aug. 3, 1657. Coleridge called him the most eloquent of divines, and said that if he had pronounced him the most eloquent of men, Cicero would have forgiven him and Demosthenes have nodded assent. He was a royalist, and is best known as the author of " Holy Living and Dying."

WHERE is this blessed babe

That hath made

All the world so full of joy

And expectation;

That glorious boy

That crowns each nation

With a triumphant wreath of blessedness?

FREDERICK OAKELEY, author of "Historical Notes on the Tractarian Movement," youngest son of Sir Charles Oakeley, was born at Shrewsbury, England, Sept. 5. 1802, and was a clergyman of the Church of England until 1845, when he entered the Church of Rome. He is the author of "Lyra Liturgica: Reflections in Verse for Holy Days and Seasons,' after the style of Keble's "Christian Year." It was published in 1865. His death occurred Jan. 31, 1880. The following is varied from Canon Oakeley's text, which begins, "Ye faithful, approach ye."

Oн, come, all faithful,

ye

Joyful and triumphant ;

Oh, come ye, oh, come ye, to Bethlehem ;
Come and behold him

Born, the King of angels:
Oh, come, let us adore him,
Oh, come, let us adore him,

Oh, come, let us adore him, Christ the Lord!

God of God,

Light of light,

Lo! he abhors not the virgin's womb; Very God,

Begotten, not created:

Oh, come, let us adore him, etc.

Sing, choirs of angels,

Sing in exultation,

To all our world of well-stolen joy

He slept, and dreamt of no such thing, While we found out Heaven's fairer eye, And kissed the cradle of our King; Tell him he rises now too late To show us aught worth looking at. Tell him we now can show him more

Than he e'er showed to mortal sight, Than he himself e'er saw before,

Which to be seen needs not his light: Tell him, Tityrus, where th' hast been, Tell him, Thyrsis, what th' hast seen.

TITYRUS.

Gloomy night embraced the place

Where the noble infant lay:

The babe looked up, and showed his face;
In spite of darkness it was day.

It was thy day, sweet, and did rise,
Not from the east, but from thy eyes.
Chorus. It was thy day, sweet, etc.

THYRSIS.

Winter chid aloud, and sent

The angry North to wage his wars: The North forgot his fierce intent, And left perfumes instead of scars.

By those sweet eyes' persuasive powers, Where he meant frosts he scattered flowers Chorus. By those sweet eyes', etc.

BOTH.

We saw thee in thy balmy nest,

Young dawn of our eternal day; We saw thine eyes break from the east, And chase the trembling shades away: We saw thee, and we blest the sight, We saw thee by thine own sweet light.

TITYRUS.

Poor world, said I, what wilt thou do
To entertain this starry stranger?
Is this the best thou canst bestow —
A cold and not too cleanly manger?
Contend, the powers of heaven and earth,
To fit a bed for this huge birth.

Chorus. Contend, the powers, etc.

THYRSIS.

Proud world, said I, cease your contest,
And let the mighty babe alone,
The phoenix builds the phoenix' nest,
Love's architecture is his own.
The babe, whose birth embraves this morn,
Made his own bed ere he was born.

Chorus. The babe whose birth, etc.

TITYRUS.

I saw the curled drops, soft and slow, Come hovering o'er the place's head, Offering their whitest sheets of snow,

To furnish the fair infant's bed. Forbear, said I, be not too bold, Your fleece is white, but 't is too cold.

THYRSIS.

I saw the obsequious seraphim

Their rosy fleece of fire bestow, For well they now can spare their wings, Since heaven itself lies here below. Well done, said I; but are you sure

Your down, so warm, will pass for pure? Chorus. Well done, said I, etc.

BOTH.

No no, your King's not yet to seek
Where to repose his royal head;
See, see how soon his new-bloomed cheek
'Twixt mother's breasts is gone to bed.
Sweet choice, said we, no way but so,
Not to lie cold, yet sleep in snow!

Chorus. Sweet choice, said we, etc.

FULL CHORUS.

Welcome all wonders in one sight!
Eternity shut in a span!
Summer in winter! day in night!

CHORUS.

Heaven in earth! and God in man! Great little one, whose all-embracing birth Lifts earth to heaven, stoops heaven to earth!

Welcome, though nor to gold nor silk,

To more than Cæsar's birthright is: Two sister seas of virgin's milk,

With many a rarely tempered kiss,

That breathes at once both maid and mother, Warms in the one, cools in the other.

She sings thy tears asleep, and dips

Her kisses in thy weeping eye;
She spreads the red leaves of thy lips,

That in their buds yet blushing lie.
She 'gainst those mother diamonds tries
The points of her young eagle's eyes.
Welcome, though not to those gay flies,
Gilded i' th' beams of earthly kings,
Slippery souls in smiling eyes,

But to poor shepherds, homespun things, Whose wealth's their flocks, whose wit's to be Well read in their simplicity.

Yet, when young April's husband showers
Shall bless the fruitful Maia's bed,
We'll bring the firstborn of her flowers,

To kiss thy feet and crown thy head.
To thee, dread Lamb! whose love must keep
The shepherds while they feed their sheep.

To thee, meek Majesty, soft King
Of simple graces and sweet loves!

Each of us his lamb will bring,

Each his pair of silver doves!

At last, in fire of thy fair eyes,
Ourselves become our own best sacrifice!
RICHARD CRASHAW.

THE SHEPHERDS.

"OH, than the fairest day, thrice fairer night! Night to best days, in which a sun doth rise Of which that golden eye which clears the skies

Is but a sparkling ray, a shadow-light!
And blessed ye, in silly pastors' sight,
Mild creatures, in whose warm crib now lies
That heaven-sent youngling, holy-maid-born
wight,

Midst, end, beginning of our prophecies! Blest cottage that hath flowers in winter spread!

Though withered — blessed grass, that hath the grace

To deck and be a carpet to that place!" Thus sang, unto the sounds of oaten reed. Before the babe, the shepherds bowed on knees;

And springs ran nectar, honey dropped from

trees!

WILLIAM DRUMMOND.

THE ANGELS' SONG.

IT came upon the midnight clear,
That glorious song of old,
From angels bending near the earth
To touch their harps of gold:
"Peace to the earth, good-will 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 unfurled ;
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 has suffered long; Beneath the angel-strain have rolled Two thousand years of wrong; And man, at war with man, hears not The love-song which they bring : Oh! hush the noise, ye men of strife, And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load 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; Oh! 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 splendors fling,

And the whole world send back the song Which now the angels sing.

1849

EDMUND H SEARS, D. D.

GLORY TO GOD IN THE HIGHEST.

SONGS of praise the angels sang,
Heaven with Alleluias rang,
When Jehovah's work begun,
When God spake and it was done.

Songs of praise awoke the morn
When the Prince of peace was born ;
Songs of praise arose when he
Captive led captivity.

Heaven and earth must pass away,
Songs of praise shall crown that day;
God will make new heaven and earth,
Songs of praise shall hail their birth.

And can man alone be dumb
Till that glorious kingdom come?
No, the Church delights to raise
Psalms and hymns and songs of praise.

Saints below, with heart and voice,
Still in songs of praise rejoice:
Learning here, by faith and love,
Songs of praise to sing above.

Borne upon their latest breath,
Songs of praise shall conquer death;
Then, amidst eternal joy,

Songs of praise their powers employ.
JAMES MONTGOMERY,

1820.

HARK! WHAT MEAN THOSE HOLY

VOICES?

REV. JOHN CAWOOD was born at Matlock, in Derbyshire, March 18, 1775, and died Nov. 7, 1852. The following is from the author's manuscript, furnished by his son for Rogers's "Lyra Britannica," London, 1867. In the usual collections the Hallelujah and the last stanza are omitted. Cawood wrote also, as a counterpart, a missionary hymn commencing, "Hark! what mean those lamentations, Rolling sadly through the sky? 'Tis the cry of heathen nations, 'Come and help us, or we die!'

HARK! what mean those holy voices
Sweetly warbling in the skies?
Sure the angelic host rejoices,
Loudest hallelujahs rise.

Hallelujah!

Listen to the wondrous story,

Which they chant in hymns of joy: "Glory in the highest, glory, Glory be to God most high! Hallelujah!

715

"Peace on earth, good-will from heaven, Reaching far as man is found;

Souls redeemed, and sins forgiven,
Loud our golden harps shall sound.
Hallelujah!

"Christ is born, the great Anointed!
Heaven and earth his glory sing!
Glad receive whom God appointed
For your Prophet, Priest, and King.
Hallelujah!

"Hasten, mortals, to adore him,

Learn his name and taste his joy,
Till in heaven you sing before him,
Glory be to God most high!
Hallelujah!"

Let us learn the wondrous story
Of our great Redeemer's birth,
Spread the brightness of his glory,
Till it cover all the earth.
Hallelujah !

JOHN CAWOOD.

This carol, founded on Luke ii. 10, was written by Martin Luther for his son Hans.

FROM heaven above to earth I come
To bear good news to every home;
Glad tidings of great joy I bring,
Whereof I now will say and sing:

To you, this night, is born a child
Of Mary, chosen mother mild;
This little child, of lowly birth,
Shall be the joy of all your earth.

'T is Christ our God, who far on high
Hath heard your sad and bitter cry;
Himself will your salvation be,
Himself from sin will make you free.

He brings those blessings, long ago
Prepared by God for all below;
Henceforth his kingdom open stands
To you, as to the angel bands.

These are the tokens you shall mark,
The swaddling clothes and manger dark;
There shall ye find the young child laid,
By whom the heavens and earth were made.

Now let us all with gladsome cheer
Follow the shepherds, and draw near,
To see this wondrous gift of God
Who hath his only Son bestowed.

Give heed, my heart, lift up thine eyes!
Who is it in yon manger lies?
Who is this child so young and fair?
The blessed Christ-child lieth there.

Welcome to earth, thou noble guest,
Through whom e'en wicked men are blest!
Thou com'st to share our misery,
What can we render, Lord, to thee!

Ah, Lord, who hast created all,

How hast thou made thee weak and small,
That thou must choose thy infant bed
Where ass and ox but lately fed!

Were earth a thousand times as fair,
Beset with gold and jewels rare,
She yet were far too poor to be
A narrow cradle, Lord, for thee.

For velvets soft and silken stuff
Thou hast but hay, and straw so rough,
Whereon thou King, so rich and great,
As 't were thy heaven, art throned in state.
Thus hath it pleased thee to make plain
The truth to us poor fools and vain,
That this world's honor, wealth, and might
Are nought and worthless in thy sight.

Ah, dearest Jesus, holy child,
Make thee a bed, soft, undefiled,
Within my heart, that it may be
A quiet chamber kept for thee.

My heart for very joy doth leap,
My lips no more can silence keep;
I too must sing with joyful tongue
That sweetest ancient cradle-song, -

Glory to God in highest heaven,
Who unto man his Son hath given!
While angels sing with pious mirth
A glad new year to all the earth.

MARTIN LUTHER, 1540. Translated by
CATHERINE WINKWORTH, 1855.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY A Picture of THE ADORATION OF THE
MAGIANS.

LITTLE pomp or earthly state
On his lowly steps might wait;
Few the homages, and small,
That the guilty earth at all
Was permitted to accord
To her King and hidden Lord.
Therefore do we set more store
On those few, and prize them more:
Dear to us for this account

Is the glory of the Mount,
When bright beams of light did spring
Through the sackcloth covering,
Rays of glory forced their way
Through the garment of decay,
With which, as with a cloak, he had
His divinest splendor clad;
Dear the lavish ointment shed
On his feet and sacred head:
And the high raised hope sublime,
And the triumph of the time
When through Zion's streets the way
Of her peaceful Conqueror lay,
Who, fulfilling ancient fame,
Meek, and with salvation came.
But of all this scanty state
That upon his steps might wait,