THE VIRGIN MOTHER.

[THE popularity of the following Carol is the only excuse for its insertion here. The poetry is of the most povertystricken description,—and yet there is a quaint earnestness that now and then arrests the reader's attention. Hone inserts it in his list, and the Carol printers deem it sufficiently a favourite to reproduce it each Christmas.]

OME behold the Virgin Mother
Fondly leaning on her child,
Nature shows not such another,

Glorious, holy, meek and mild:

Bethlehem's ancient walls enclose him,
Dwelling place of David once;

Now no friendly homestead knows him,
Tho' the noblest of his sons.

Many a prophecy before him

Publish'd his bright advent long,

I

Guardian Angels low adore him
In a joyous heavenly song;
Eastern Sages see with wonder

His bright Star illume the sky,
O'er the volumes old they ponder,
Volumes of dark prophecy.

Royal Bethlehem how deserted,
All his pomp and splendour lost;
Is a stable, vile and dirty,

All the welcome you can boast?
Far they travel, oft enquiring

Where the wondrous babe is born: On they come with great desiring, Although others treat with scorn.

See, a babe of days and weakness
Heaven's Almighty now appears,

Liable to death and sickness,
Shame and agony and tears.

Sovereign he and great Creator,

He who form'd the heav'ns and earth

Yet takes on him human nature,

Angels wonder at his birth.

Why, ah, why this condescension,

God with mortal man to dwell?

Why lay by his grand pretension, He who does all thrones excell? 'Tis to be a man, a brother,

With us sinners of mankind : Vain we search for such another, Ne'er we love like this shall find.

'Tis to make himself an offering
As a pure atoning lamb,
Souls redeeming by his suffering,
That in human flesh he came ;

As a God he could not suffer,
He a body true must have;

As a man what he might offer
Could not satisfy or save.

Tho' an infant now you view him,
He shall fill his Father's throne,
Gather all the Nations to him;

Every knee shall then bow down :
Foes shall at his presence tremble,

Great and small, and quick and dead,

None can fly, none dare dissemble,

None find where to hide his head.

Friends! Oh then in cheerful voices

They shall shout with glad acclaim,
While each rising saint rejoices,
Saints of high or lowest fame.
Then what different appearing

We 'mong mortal tribes shall find;
Groaning those who now are sneering,
Triumphing the humble mind.

May we now, that day forestalling,
Hear the word, and read and pray,

Listen to the Gospel calling,

And with humble heart obey.

Give us hearty true repentance,

Live in faith and holiness;
Then we need not fear thy sentence,
But may trust thy saving grace,

Hallelujah, Hallelujah, Hallelujah,
Praise the Lord.

JOY TO THE WORLD.

[AMONGST all the jubilant Carols this is certainly the greatest favourite with the good people of Devon and Cornwall. The tune to which it is usually sung is very fine. The Carol may date back to the beginning of the last century, but it is probably more recent.]

OY to the world, the Lord is come,
Let earth receive her King;
Let every tongue with sacred mirth

His loud applauses sing.

Hark, hark, what news, what joyful news,

To all the nations round:
1;

To-day rejoice, a King is born,

Who is with glory crown'd.

Behold! He comes, the tidings spread,

He

A Saviour full of grace:

comes, in mercy, to restore,

A sinful, fallen race.