Though not fairly understood, And gazing on the setting sun, I have search'd the sacred page, But my soul the triumph won, Only breathed-" Thy will be done." They have served in pressing need, 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 "Good-will fulfil, fulfil good-will," And shall we scorn such fancy-songs, Which lift us up from woes and wrongs, No! rouse to life the laughing blaze, 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 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 Dear Christmas days, how fair ye seem, Calm, holy, and sublime! Footprints of angels, how ye gleam Along the path of Time! 89 Footprints whereon sweet heart-flowers blow, By worldly storms unriven, That we may mark them as we go, A A Hundred Years. ANNA BLACKWELL. HUNDRED years, and still and low A hundred years, and grass will grow Above my dreamless bed. The grass will grow; the brook will run; Will spring in beauty 'neath the sun; A hundred years! some briefer space While on the plains, the lasting hills, Still dial Time's slow chronicles; 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, 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 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 My soul's parting knell, Farewell! oh, farewell! 91 I go to the isles Where the golden light gleams; Ye have pictured in dreams; Where the bright spirits dwell, 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, 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 Go, then, to sunshine and the wind, Sweet bird, go forth, and fare thee well |