_The Christian Year_ of the Rev. John Keble (born in 1800) is perhaps better known in England than any other work of similar church character. I must confess I have never been able to enter into the enthusiasm of its admirers. Excellent, both in regard of their literary and religious merits, true in feeling and thorough in finish, the poems always remind me of Berlin work in iron--hard and delicate. Here is a portion of one of the best of them. ST. MATTHEW. Ye hermits blest, ye holy maids, The nearest heaven on earth, Who talk with God in shadowy glades, Free from rude care and mirth; To whom some viewless teacher brings The secret lore of rural things, The moral of each fleeting cloud and gale, The whispers from above, that haunt the twilight vale: Say, when in pity ye have gazed On the wreath'd smoke afar, That o'er some town, like mist upraised, Hung hiding sun and star; Then as ye turned your weary eye To the green earth and open sky, Were ye not fain to doubt how Faith could dwell Amid that dreary glare, in this world's citadel? But Love's a flower that will not die For lack of leafy screen, And Christian Hope can cheer the eye That ne'er saw vernal green: Then be ye sure that Love can bless Even in this crowded loneliness, Where ever-moving myriads seem to say, Go--thou art nought to us, nor we to thee--away! There are in this loud stunning tide Of human care and crime, With whom the melodies abide Of the everlasting chime; Who carry music in their heart Through dusky lane and wrangling mart, Plying their daily task with busier feet, Because their secret souls a holy strain repeat.