touches. The opening lines are
a fair specimen.

O to have heard th' unearthly symphonies,
Which o'er the starlight peace of Syrian skies
Came floating like a dream, that blessed night
When angel songs were heard by sinful men,
Hymning Messiah's advent! O to have watch'd
The night with those poor shepherds, whom, when first
The glory of the Lord shed sudden day--
Day without dawn, starting from midnight, day
Brighter than morning--on those lonely hills
Strange fear surpris'd--fear lost in wondering joy,
When from th' angelic multitude swell'd forth
The many-voiced consonance of praise:--
Glory in th' highest to God, and upon earth
Peace, towards men good will. But once before,
In such glad strains of joyous fellowship,
The silent earth was greeted by the heavens,
When at its first foundation they looked down
From their bright orbs, those heavenly ministries,
Hailing the new-born world with bursts of joy.

Notwithstanding beauties scattered here and there, there is an effort
and constrained stateliness in the poem, very different from the
rapidity and simplicity of many of the shorter lyrics, which follow
under the titles of Sacred and Domestic Poems. Such, for instance, as
the Poor Man's Hymn

As much have I of worldly good
As e'er my master had:
I diet on as dainty food,
And am as richly clad,
Tho' plain my garb, though scant my board,
As Mary's Son and Nature's Lord.

The manger was his infant bed,
His home, the mountain-cave,
He had not where to lay his head,
He borrow'd even his grave.
Earth yielded him no resting spot,--
Her Maker, but she knew him not.

As much the world's good will I bear,
Its favours and applause,
As He, whose blessed name I bear,--
Hated without a cause,
Despis'd, rejected, mock'd by pride,
Betray'd, forsaken, crucified.

Why should I court my Master's foe?
Why should I fear its frown?
Why should I seek for rest below,
Or sigh for brief renown?--
A pilgrim to a better land,
An heir of joys at GOD's right hand?

Or the following sweet lines on Home, which occur among the Domestic
poems:

That is not home, where day by day
I wear the busy hours away.
That is not home, where lonely night
Prepares me for the toils of light--
'Tis hope, and joy, and memory, give
A