Her name has stirred the mountains' sleep, Her praise has filled the town:

And mourners God had stricken deep Looked hearkening up, and did not weep! Alone she wept,

Who wept to wear a crown.

She saw no purple shine,

For tears had dimmed her eyes:
She only knew her childhood's flowers
Were happier pageantries!

And while the heralds played their part
For million shouts to drown-
"God save the Queen," from hill to mart-
She heard, through all, her beating heart,
And turned and wept!
She wept, to wear a crown.

God save thee, weeping Queen!
Thou shalt be well beloved,
The tyrant's sceptre cannot move
As those pure tears have moved;

The nature in thine eye we see,
Which tyrants cannot own-
The love that guardeth liberties;
Strange blessing on the nation lies,
Whose sovereign wept,

Yea, wept, to wear its crown.

God bless thee, weeping Queen,
With blessing more divine;

And fill with better love than earth's,
That tender heart of thine;

That when the thrones of earth shall be
As low as graves brought down,
A pierced hand may give to thee,
The crown which angels wept to see.
Thou wilt not weep

To wear that heavenly crown.

Alfred Tennyson.

Born 1809.

He is son of the Rev.

THE greatest poet of his times, was born in 1809. George Clayton Tennyson of Sowerby, Lincolnshire. He entered at Trinity College, Cambridge; some of his poems, dated 1830, were written there. In 1833 appeared a volume of poems which awakened great interest for the author, though they were somewhat severely handled by the critics. It is supposed that this circumstance will account for the lapse of nine years which occurred before his next volume was published, in 1842, The great advance made by the poet was apparent, and the marvellous brilliancy of colouring and profoundness of thought displayed in the new pieces caused public opinion to acknowledge him as the first of living poets. In 1847 appeared "The Princess;" in 1850 "In Memoriam ;""Maud" in 1855; and in 1858 "Idylls of the King," which more than sustained his previous reputation. He succeeded to the laureateship on the death of Wordsworth in 1850.

CHRISTMAS BELLS.

(From "In Memoriam.")

RING out, wild bells, to the wild sky,
The flying cloud, the frosty light:
The year is dying in the night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow :
The year is going, let him go;
Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind,
For those that here we see no more;
Ring out the feud of rich and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,
The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,
The civic slander and the spite;

Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,

The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land;
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

It is the day when he was born,
A bitter day that early sank
Behind a purple frosty-bank
Of vapours, leaving night forlorn.

The time admits not flowers or leaves
To deck the banquet. Fiercely flies
The blast of north and east, and ice
Makes daggers at the sharpen'd eaves,

And bristles all the brakes and thorns,
To yon hard crescent, as she hangs
Above the wood which grides and clangs
Its leafless ribs and iron horns

Together, in the drifts that pass,

To darken on the rolling brine,

That breaks the coast. But fetch the wine, Arrange the board and brim the glass.

Bring in great logs, and let them lie,
To make a solid core of heat;
Be cheerful-minded, talk and treat
Of all things ev'n as he were by.

We keep the day. With festal cheer,
With books and music, surely we
Will drink to him, whate'er he be,
And sing the songs he loved to hear.

Richard Monckton Milnes.

Born 1809.

ELDEST Son of R. P. Milnes, Esq. of Frystone Hall, Yorkshire. In 1837 he was returned M.P. for the borough of Pontefract. Besides taking an active part in public business and questions of social progress, he has ever been the friend of literature. He has published four volumes of poetry, which fully entitle him to a place in the roll of poets.

LONDON CHURCHES.

I STOOD, One Sunday morning,
Before a large church-door,
The congregation gathered
And carriages a score--
From one out stepped a lady
I oft had seen before.

Her hand was on a prayer-book,
And held a vinaigrette ;
The sign of man's redemption
Clear on the book was set,-

But above the Cross their glistened
A golden Coronet.

For her the obsequious beadle

The inner door flung wide,

Lightly, as up a ball-room,

Her footsteps seemed to glide

There might be good thoughts in her
For all her evil pride.

But after her a woman

Peeped wistfully within,

On whose wan face was graven

Life's hardest discipline

The trace of the sad trinity
Of weakness, pain, and sin.

The few free-seats were crowded
Where she could rest and pray;
With her worn garb contrasted
Each side in fair array-

"God's house holds no poor sinners,"

She sighed, and crept away.

O. W. Holmes.

Born 1809.

AN American poet, born at Cambridge, Massachusetts, on 29th August 1809. He graduated at Harvard College, and studied for the law, but afterwards he abandoned it and studied medicine. He took his degree of M.D. in 1836. Besides the successful performance of the duties of his profession, he contributed verses to the various periodicals, which he published in a collected form in 1836. He is also the author of several valuable medical works.

THE LAST READER.

I SOMETIMES sit beneath a tree,

And read my own sweet songs;
Thought nought they may to others be,
Each humble line prolongs

A tone that might have passed away,
But for that scarce remembered lay.

I keep them like a lock or leaf,

That some dear girl has given;
Frail record of an hour, as brief

As sunset clouds in heaven,
But spreading purple twilight still
High over memory's shadowed hill.

They lie upon my pathway bleak,
Those flowers that once ran wild,
As on a father's care-worn cheek
The ringlets of his child;
The golden mingling with the grey,
And stealing half its snows away.

And when my name no more is heard,

My lyre no more is known,

Still let me like a winter's bird,

In silence and alone,

Fold over them the weary wing

Once flashing through the dews of spring.