Though not fairly understood,
Still those words, at evening hour,
Imply some Being great and good,
Of mercy, majesty, and power.
Bending low on infant knee,

And gazing on the setting sun,
I thought that orb His home must be,
To whom I said—“ Thy will be done."

I have search'd the sacred page,
I have heard the godly speech,
But the lore of saint or sage
Nothing holier can teach.
Pain has wrung my spirit sore,

But my soul the triumph won,
When the anguish that I bore

Only breathed-" Thy will be done."

They have served in pressing need,
Have nerved my heart in every task,
And howsoe'er my breast may bleed,
No other balm of prayer I ask.
When my whiten'd lips declare

Life's last sands have almost run,

May the dying breath they bear

Murmur forth—" Thy will be done."

Christmas.

JOHN CRITCHLEY PRINCE.

NE cannot choose but love the bells,

ΟΝ

With their harmonious din

Those speaking bells, whose falls and swells Ring merry Christmas in :

Christmas.

They sound like angel voices sent
From some serener sphere,
Singing from out the firmament—
"The Prince of Peace is here."

"Good-will fulfil, fulfil good-will,"
Their glad lips seem to say-
"The best ye can for brother man,"
Goes on the peaceful lay;

And shall we scorn such fancy-songs,
If fancy songs they be-

Which lift us up from woes and wrongs,
And bid our hearts be free?

No! rouse to life the laughing blaze,
Draw round it every one;
Away, sad thoughts of former days,
Cares of to-day, begone;

Ah, now ye wear a cheerful look,

A bright and earnest grace, Even the old clock in the nook Trims up its burnish'd face.

Now for an anthem, such as rung
In halls and homes of old,
Let every soul to joy be strung,

Each voice flow free and bold;

Lo! as ye sing, each gentle thing

Stirs at the tuneful call,

For the berries that blush 'mid the holly bush
Are trembling upon the wall.

Dear Christmas days, how fair ye seem,

Calm, holy, and sublime!

Footprints of angels, how ye gleam

Along the path of Time!

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Footprints whereon sweet heart-flowers blow,

By worldly storms unriven,

That we may mark them as we go,
And find our way to Heaven.

A

A Hundred Years.

ANNA BLACKWELL.

HUNDRED years, and still and low
Will lie my sleeping head;

A hundred years, and grass will grow

Above my dreamless bed.

The grass will grow; the brook will run;
Life still as fresh and fair

Will spring in beauty 'neath the sun;
Where will my place be? where?

A hundred years! some briefer space
My life perchance had spann'd;
But ere they lapse my feet must pass
Within the silent land.

While on the plains, the lasting hills,
In shadow and in shine,

Still dial Time's slow chronicles;
What record will be mine?

A hundred years! O yearning heart!

O spirit true and brave!

With Doubt and Death thou hast no part,

No kindred with the grave!

For we shall last as lasts the Earth,

And live as lives the Sun;

And we shall know that Death is Birth

Ere a hundred years have run!

The Parting Spirit.

Dh, Teach Me to Love Thee.

OH

T. MOORE.-Air, Haydn.

H, teach me to love Thee, to feel what Thou art,
Till, fill'd with the one sacred image, my heart
Shall all other passions disown;

Like some pure temple that shines apart,

Reserved for Thy worship alone.

In joy and sorrow, through praise and through blame, Thus still let me, living or dying the same,

In Thy service bloom and decay,

Like some lone altar, whose votive flame

In holiness wasteth away.

Though born in this desert, and doom'd by my birth
To pain and affliction, to darkness and death,
On Thee let my spirit rely—

Like some rude dial, that fix'd on earth

Still looks for its light from the sky.

The Parting Spirit.

W. E. STAITE.—Music by W. M. Rooke.

AREWELL! oh, farewell!

Though in secret ye weep

Dark tears o'er the grave
Where in silence I sleep.
The night breeze that murmurs

My soul's parting knell,
Shall waft me from sorrow-

Farewell! oh, farewell!

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I go to the isles

Where the golden light gleams;
I go the land

Ye have pictured in dreams;
I soar to the realms

Where the bright spirits dwell,
Where hearts know no sorrow -
Farewell! oh, farewell!

The Dove's Departure.

REV. WILLIAM LISLE BOWLES.

Go, beautiful and gentle dove,

And greet the morning ray;

For lo! the sun shines bright above,
And night and storm are pass'd away:
No longer drooping, here confined,
In this cold prison dwell;

Go, free to sunshine and to wind,

Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well.

O beautiful and gentle dove,

Thy welcome sad will be,

When thou shalt hear no voice of love
In murmurs from the leafy tree:
Yet freedom, freedom shalt thou find,
From this cold prison's cell:

Go, then, to sunshine and the wind,

Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well