Volume 1 — HYMNS AND POEMS FOR THE TWILIGHT HOUR

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READY FOR BED

Hark! the clock strikes from the steeple; Now good-night to all good people; Bed is ready to receive us; Yet you say, "Oh, do not leave us!" Thank you, friends, but we must hurry, Else our dear old nurse will worry. Good-bye, father; good-bye, mother; Come now, baby; come now, brother: By your sisters three attended, All must go, for play is ended.-- Early go, if wise and wealthy We would be, and also healthy. So good-night to all good people! Hark! from yet another steeple, One, two, three, four, five, six, seven: Now to bed, and bless you, Heaven. Good advice comes from the steeple: So good-night to all good people!

--Ida Fay.

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BABY'S BOAT

Baby's in the boat, Rocking to and fro; Tautest craft afloat,-- Baby's watch below. Snowy sails are set: Little lullabies, Hush the pretty pet, Close the laughing eyes. Storms can never harm; Mother watches near: Oh! her loving arm Knows the way to steer. Quiet now, at last, Till the morning beams; Baby's anchored fast In the port of dreams.

--George Cooper.

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THE ADORATION OF THE ANGELS By William Adolph Bouguereau (1825-1905)

"Angels from the realms of glory, Wing your flight o'er all the earth, Ye who sang creation's story, Now proclaim Messiah's birth; Come and worship, Worship Christ, the newborn King."

--James Montgomery

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LITTLE VOICES

What says the little brook? "I am but a little brook; Yet on me The stars as brightly gleam As on the mighty stream; I sparkle on my way To the sea." What says the little ray? "I am but a little ray, Sent to earth By the sun so great and bright, Giving food and heat and light; Yet I gladden every spot The palace and the cot Hail my birth." What says the little flower? "I am but a little flower At your feet; Yet on the path you tread, Some joy and grace I shed; So I am happy too For the little I can do When we meet." What says the little lamb? "I am but a little lamb Soft and mild; Yet in the meadows sweet I ramble and I bleat; {428} And soon my wool will grow, To clothe you with, you know, Darling child." What says the little bird? "I am but a little bird With my song; Come, hear me singing now, As I hop from bough to bough; For I cheer the old and sad With my voice, and I am glad All day long," What says the little child? "I am but a little child Fond of play; Yet in my heart, I know The grace of God will grow, If I try to do His will, And His law of love fulfill, And obey."

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THE TWILIGHT FALLS, THE NIGHT IS NEAR

The twilight falls, the night is near. I fold my work away, And kneel to One who bends to hear The story of the day. The old, old story; yet I kneel To tell it at Thy call, And cares grow lighter as I feel That Jesus knows them all. Thou knowest all: I lean my head; My weary eyelids close; Content and glad awhile to tread This path, since Jesus knows. And He has loved me: all my heart With answering love is stirred, And every anguished pain and smart Finds healing in the word. So here I lay me down to rest, As nightly shadows fall, And lean confiding on His breast Who knows and pities all.

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SAVIOUR, BREATHE AN EVENING BLESSING

Saviour, breathe an evening blessing Ere repose our spirits seal; Sin and want we come confessing, Thou canst bless, and Thou canst heal. Though destruction walk around us, Though the arrow past us fly, Angel-guards from Thee surround us, We are safe if Thou art nigh. Though the night be dark and dreary, Darkness cannot hide from Thee; Thou art He who, never weary, Watchest where Thy people be.

--James Edmeston.

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THE MADONNA OF THE HARPIES By Andrea del Sarto (1487-1583)

One of the most famous painters of the Florentine school. He lived and worked in his native city of Florence except for a sojourn at Paris, where he was invited by Francis I. This picture is called the "Madonna of the Harpies" because of the strange figures of harpies in the border, not shown in this reproduction

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SUMMER RAIN

The mountain streams are silent, Or whisper faint and low; The earth is grateful to the dews For moisture which the clouds refuse; Blow, west wind, blow! And fall, O gentle rain! Awake the music of the bowers, Unfold the beauty of the flowers; The cornfields long to hear thy voice, And woods and orchards will rejoice To see thee, gentle rain! It comes! The gushing wealth descends! Hark! how it patters on the leaves! Hark! how it drops from cottage eaves! The pastures and the clouds are friends. Drop gently, gentle rain! The fainting cornstalk lifts its head, The grass grows greener at thy tread, The woods are musical again; And from the hillside springing, Down comes the torrent singing, With grateful nature in accord, A full-voiced anthem to the Lord, To thank Him for the rain.

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THE GLORIOUS HEAVENS

The spacious firmament on high, With all the blue ethereal sky, And spangled heavens, a shining frame, Their great Original proclaim. Th' unwearied sun, from day to day, Does his Creator's power display, And publishes to every land The work of an almighty hand. Soon as the evening shades prevail The moon takes up the wondrous tale, And nightly to the listening earth Repeats the story of her birth; Whilst all the stars that round her burn, And all the planets in their turn, Confirm the tidings as they roll, And spread the truth from pole to pole. What though in solemn silence all Move round the dark terrestrial ball? What though nor real voice nor sound Amidst the radiant orbs be found? In reason's ear they all rejoice, And utter forth a glorious voice, Forever singing as they shine, "The hand that made us is divine."

--Addison.

Adapted from the nineteenth Psalm

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JESUS AND JOHN By Murillo (1618-1682)

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TWILIGHT

The twilight is sad and cloudy, The wind blows wild and free, And like the wings of sea-birds Flash the white caps of the sea. But in the fisherman's cottage There shines a sudden light; And a little face at the window Peers out into the night. Close, close it is pressed to the window, As if those childish eyes Were looking into the darkness To see some form arise. And a woman's waving shadow Is passing to and fro, Now rising to the ceiling, Now bowing and bending low. What tale do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, bleak and wild, As they beat at the crazy casement, Tell to that little child? And why do the roaring ocean, And the night wind, wild and bleak, As they beat at the heart of the mother, Drive the color from her cheek?

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

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THE PEBBLE AND THE ACORN

"I am a Pebble and yield to none!" Were the swelling words of a tiny stone; "Nor change nor season can alter me: I am abiding while ages flee. The pelting hail and the drizzling rain Have tried to soften me long in vain; And the tender dew has sought to melt Or to touch my heart,--but it was not felt. "None can tell of the Pebble's birth; For I am as old as the solid earth. The children of men arise and pass Out of the world like blades of grass; And many a foot on me has trod That's gone from sight and under the sod! I am a Pebble! but who art thou, Rattling along from the restless bough?" The Acorn was shocked at this rude salute, And lay for a moment abashed and mute; And she felt for a while perplexed to know How to answer a thing so low. But to give reproof of nobler sort Than the angry look or the keen retort, At length she said, in a gentle tone, "Since it has happened that I am thrown "From the lighter element, where I grew, Down to another so hard and new, {439} And beside a personage so august, Abashed I will cover my head with dust, And quickly retire from the sight of one Whom time nor season, nor storm nor sun, Nor the gentler dew, nor the grinding wheel, Has ever subdued or made to feel." And soon in the earth she sunk away From the comfortless spot where the Pebble lay; But it was not long ere the soil was broke By the peering head of an ancient oak; And as it arose, and its branches spread, The Pebble looked up, and, wondering, said,-- "A modest acorn never to tell What was enclosed in her simple shell-- "That the pride of the forest was thus shut up Within the space of her little cup! And meekly to sink in the darksome earth To prove that nothing could hide her worth. And, O, how many will tread on me To come and admire that beautiful tree, Whose head is towering toward the sky, Above such a worthless thing as I! "Useless and vain, a cumberer here, I have been idling from year to year; But never from this shall a vaunting word From the humble Pebble again be heard, Till something without me, or within, Can show the purpose for which I've been!" The Pebble could not its vow forget And it lies there wrapped in silence yet.

--Gould.

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A PSALM OF LIFE

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream! For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem. Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; "Dust thou art, to dust returnest," Was not spoken of the soul. Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day. Art is long and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave. In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife! Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,--act in the living Present! Heart within, and God o'erhead! {441} Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;-- Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again. Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

By permission of Houghton. Mifflin & Co.

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WHILE THEE I SEEK, PROTECTING POWER

While Thee I seek, protecting Power, Be my vain wishes stilled; And may this consecrated hour With better hopes be filled. Thy love the power of thought bestowed, To Thee my thoughts would soar, Thy mercy o'er my life has flowed, That mercy I adore. In each event of life, how clear Thy ruling hand I see; Each blessing to my soul more dear, Because conferred by Thee. In every joy that crowns my days, In every pain I bear, My heart shall find delight in praise, Or seek relief in prayer. When gladness wings my favored hour, Thy love my thoughts shall fill; Resigned, when storms of sorrow lower, My soul shall meet Thy will. My lifted eye, without a tear, The lowering storm shall see; My steadfast heart shall know no fear, That heart will rest on Thee.

--Helen Maria Williams.

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MADONNA DELLA TENDA By Raphael (1483-1520)

"Think ye the notes of holy song On Milton's tuneful ear have died? Think ye that Raphael's angel throng Has vanished from his side? "Oh, no!--We live our life again; Or warmly touched, or coldly dim, The pictures of the Past remain,-- Man's works shall follow him!"

--John Greenleaf Whittier.

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OFT IN THE STILLY NIGHT

Oft in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Fond memory brings the light Of other days around me; The smiles, the tears, Of boyhood's years, The words of love then spoken, The eyes that shone, Now dimmed and gone, The cheerful hearts now broken! Thus in the stilly night Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me. When I remember all The friends, so link'd together, I've seen around me fall, Like leaves in wintry weather; I feel like one Who treads alone, Some banquet hall deserted, Whose lights are fled, Whose garlands dead, And all but he departed. Thus in the stilly night, Ere slumber's chain has bound me, Sad memory brings the light Of other days around me.

--Thomas Moore.

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THE BRIDGE

I stood on the bridge at midnight, As the clocks were striking the hour, And the moon rose o'er the city, Behind the dark church tower. I saw her bright reflection In the waters under me, Like a golden goblet falling And sinking into the sea. And far in the hazy distance Of that lovely night in June, The blaze of the flaming furnace Gleamed redder than the moon. Among the long, black rafters The wavering shadows lay, And the current that came from the ocean Seemed to lift and bear them away; As, sweeping and eddying through them, Rose the belated tide, And, streaming into the moonlight, The seaweed floated wide. And like those waters rushing Among the wooden piers, A flood of thoughts came o'er me That filled my eyes with tears. How often, O how often, In the days that had gone by, I had stood on that bridge at midnight And gazed on that wave and sky! {447} How often, O how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O'er the ocean wild and wide! For my heart was hot and restless, And my life was full of care, And the burden laid upon me Seemed greater than I could bear. But now it has fallen from me, It is buried in the sea; And only the sorrow of others Throws its shadow over me. Yet whenever I cross the river On its bridge with wooden piers, Like the odor of brine from the ocean Comes the thought of other years. And I think how many thousands Of care encumbered men, Each bearing his burden of sorrow, Have crossed the bridge since then. I see the long procession Still passing to and fro, The young heart hot and restless, And the old subdued and slow! And forever and forever, As long as the river flows, As long as the heart has passions, As long as life has woes; The moon and its broken reflection And its shadows shall appear As the symbol of love in heaven, And its wavering image here.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co.

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KINDNESS

A little word in kindness spoken, A motion or a tear, Has often healed the heart that's broken, And made a friend sincere. A word--a look--has crushed to earth Full many a budding flower, Which, had a smile but owned its birth, Would bless life's darkest hour. Then deem it not an idle thing A pleasant word to speak; The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, A heart may heal or break.

--Colesworthy.

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MADONNA By Murillo (1618-1682)

"Bright angels are around thee, They that have served thee from thy birth are there; Their hands with stars have crowned thee; Thou, peerless Queen of Air, As sandals to thy feet the silver moon doth wear."

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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PERSEVERANCE

A swallow in the spring Came to our granary, and 'neath the eaves Essayed to make her nest, and there did bring Wet earth, and straw, and leaves. Day after day she toiled With patient art; but ere her work was crowned Some sad mishap the tiny fabric spoiled And dashed it to the ground. She found the ruin wrought; Yet not cast down, forth from her place she flew And with her mate fresh earth and grasses brought And built her nest anew. But scarcely had she placed The last soft feather on its ample floor, When wicked hands, or chance, again laid waste, And wrought the ruin o'er. But still her heart she kept And toiled again; and, last night hearing calls, I looked, and lo! three little swallows slept Within the earth-made walls. What trust is here, O man! Hath Hope been smitten in its early dawn? Have clouds o'ercast thy purpose, trust, or plan? Have faith, and struggle on!

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THE LIGHT OF STARS

The night is come, but not too soon; And sinking silently, All silently, the little moon Drops down behind the sky. There is no light in earth or heaven, But the cold light of stars; And the first watch of night is given To the red planet Mars. Is it the tender star of love? The star of love and dreams? O no! from that blue tent above A hero's armor gleams. And earnest thoughts within me rise, When I behold afar, Suspended in the evening skies The shield of that red star. O star of strength! I see thee stand And smile upon my pain; Thou beckonest with thy mailed hand, And I am strong again. Within my breast there is no light, But the cold light of stars; I give the first watch of the night To the red planet Mars. {453} The star of the unconquered will. He rises in my breast Serene, and resolute, and still. And calm, and self-possessed. And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm. O fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know ere long, Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

By permission of Houghton, Mifflin & CD.

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WE ARE SEVEN

I met a little cottage girl; She was eight years old she said; Her hair was thick with many a curl That clustered round her head. She had a rustic woodland air, And she was wildly clad; Her eyes were fair, and very fair, --Her beauty made me glad. "Sisters and brothers, little maid, How many may you be?" "How many? Seven in all," she said, And wondering looked at me. "And who are they? I pray you tell." She answered, "Seven are we; And two of us at Conway dwell And two are gone to sea. "Two of us in the churchyard lie, My sister and my brother; And in the churchyard cottage, I Dwell near them with my mother." "You say that two at Conway dwell And two are gone to sea, Yet ye are seven! I pray you tell, Sweet maid, how this may be." {455} Then did the little maid reply, "Seven boys and girls are we; Two of us in the churchyard lie Beneath the churchyard tree." "You run about, my little maid, Your limbs they are alive; If two are in the churchyard laid, Then ye are only five." "Their graves are green, they may be seen," The little maid replied, "Twelve steps or more from my mother's door, And they are side by side. "My stockings there I often knit, My kerchiefs there I hem; And there upon the ground I sit And sing a song to them. "And often after sunset, sir, When it is light and fair, I take my little porringer And eat my supper there. "The first that died was sister Jane; In bed she moaning lay Till God released her from her pain; And then she went away. "So in the churchyard she was laid; And, when the grass was dry, Together round her grave we played, My brother John and 1. "And when the ground was white with snow, And I could run and slide, My brother John was forced to go, And he lies by her side." {456} "How many are you then," said I, "If there are two in heaven?" Quick was the little maid's reply, "O master! We are seven." "But they are dead: those two are dead; Their spirits are in heaven!" 'T was throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, "Nay, we are seven!"

--William Wordsworth.

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JESUS IN THE TEMPLE By William Holman Hunt (1827-1910)

One of the famous English school of so called pre-Raphaelite painters. This picture, "Jesus in the Temple," is one of his most celebrated paintings

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CHILDREN

Come to me, O ye children! For I hear you at your play, And the questions that perplexed me Have vanished quite away. Ye open the eastern windows, That look toward the sun, Where thoughts are singing swallows And the brooks of morning run. In your hearts are the birds and the sunshine, In your thoughts the brooklet's flow, But in mine is the wind of autumn And the first fall of the snow. Ah! what would the world be to us If the children were no more? We should dread the desert behind us Worse than the dark before. What the leaves are to the forest, With light and air for food, Ere their sweet and tender juices Have been hardened into wood,-- That to the world are children; Through them it feels the glow Of a brighter and sunnier climate Than reaches the trunks below. {460} Come to me, O ye children! And whisper in my ear What the birds and the winds are singing In your sunny atmosphere. For what are all our contrivings, And the wisdom of our books, When compared with your caresses, And the gladness of your looks? Ye are better than all the ballads That ever were sung or said; For ye are living poems, And all the rest are dead.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

By permission of Houghton. Mifflin & Co.

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ONE BY ONE

One by one the sands are flowing, One by one the moments fall; Some are coming, some are going; Do not strive to grasp them all. One by one thy duties wait thee, Let thy whole strength go to each; Let no future dreams elate thee, Learn thou first what these can teach. One by one (bright gifts from heaven) Joys are sent thee here below; Take them readily when given,-- Ready, too, to let them go. One by one thy griefs shall meet thee, Do not fear an armed band; One will fade as others greet thee-- Shadows passing through the land. Do not look at life's long sorrow; See how small each moment's pain; God will help thee for to-morrow; So each day begin again. Every hour, that fleets so slowly, Has its task to do or bear; Luminous the crown and holy, When each gem is set with care. {462} Do not linger with regretting, Or for passing hours despond; Nor, the daily toil forgetting, Look too eagerly beyond. Hours are golden links, God's token, Reaching heaven; but one by one Take them, lest the chain be broken, Ere the pilgrimage be done.

--Adelaide Ann Procter.

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TO-DAY AND TO-MORROW

If Fortune, with a smiling face, Strew roses in our way, When shall we stoop to pick them up?-- To-day, my friend, to-day. But should she frown with face of care And talk of coming sorrow, When shall we grieve, if grieve we must?-- To-morrow, friend, to-morrow. If those who've wronged us own their faults And kindly pity pray, When shall we listen and forgive?-- To-day, my friend, to-day. But if stern Justice urge rebuke, And warmth from memory borrow, When shall we chide, if chide we dare?-- To-morrow, friend, to-morrow. For virtuous acts and harmless joys The minutes will not stay; We've always time to welcome them To-day, my friend, to-day. But care, resentment, angry words, And unavailing sorrow, Come far too soon, if they appear To-morrow, friend, to-morrow.

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STILL WITH THEE

Still, still with Thee, my God, I would desire to be, By day, by night, at home, abroad, I would be still with Thee. With Thee when dawn comes in, And calls me back to care, Each day returning to begin With Thee, my God, in prayer. With Thee amid the crowd That throngs the busy mart, To hear Thy voice, 'mid clamor loud, Speak softly to my heart. With Thee when day is done, And evening calms the mind; The setting, as the rising, sun With Thee my heart would find. With Thee when darkness brings The signal of repose, Calm in the shadow of Thy wings Mine eyelids I would close. With Thee, in Thee, by faith Abiding I would be; By day, by night, in life, in death, I would be still with Thee.

--James Drummond Burns.

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THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD By William Holman Hunt (1827-1910)

The original of this famous picture is owned by Keble College, Oxford, and is hung in a small room adjoining the chapel.

"The legend beneath it is the beautiful verse--'Behold I stand at the door and knock. If any man hear my voice, and open the door, I will come in to him, and will sup with him, and he with me.' REV. iii. 26. On the left-hand side of the picture is seen this door of the human soul. It is fast barred; its bars and nails are rusty; it is knitted and bound to its stanchions by creeping tendrils of ivy, shewing that it has never been opened. A bat hovers about it; its threshold is overgrown with brambles, nettles, and fruitless corn,--the wild grass, 'whereof the mower filleth not his hand, nor he that bindeth the sheaves his bosom.' Christ approaches it in the night-time,--Christ, in his everlasting offices, of Prophet, Priest, and King. He wears the white robe, representing the power of the Spirit upon him; the jeweled robe and breastplate, representing the sacerdotal investiture; the rayed crown of gold, inwoven with the crown of thorns; not dead thorns, but now bearing soft leaves, for the healing of the nations.

"Now, when Christ enters any human heart, he bears with him a twofold light: first, the light of conscience, which displays past sin, and afterwards the light of peace, the hope of salvation. The lantern, carried in Christ's left hand, is this light of conscience. Its fire is red and fierce; it falls only on the closed door, on the weeds which encumber it, and on an apple shaken from one of the trees of the orchard, thus marking that the entire awakening of the conscience is not merely to committed, but to hereditary guilt.

"The light is suspended by a chain wrapt about the wrist of the figure, shewing that the light which reveals sin appears to the sinner also to chain the hand of Christ. The light which proceeds from the head of the figure, on the contrary, is that of the hope of salvation; it springs from the crown of thorns, and, though itself sad, subdued, and full of softness, is yet so powerful that it entirely melts into the glow of it the forms of the leaves and boughs, which it crosses, shewing that every earthly object must be hidden by this light, where its sphere extends."--Ruskin, "Arrows of the Chace."

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LEAD, KINDLY LIGHT

Lead, kindly Light, amid th' encircling gloom, Lead Thou me on; The night is dark and I am far from home, Lead Thou me on; Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see The distant scene; one step enough for me. I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou Should'st lead me on; I loved to choose and see my path, but now Lead Thou me on! I loved the garish day, and spite of fears Pride ruled my will; remember not past years. So long Thy power has blest me, sure it still Will lead me on O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till The night is gone, And with the morn those angel faces smile Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!

--John Henry Newman.

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NOW THE DAY IS OVER

Now the day is over, Night is drawing nigh, Shadows of the evening Steal along the sky. Now the darkness gathers, Stars begin to peep; Birds and beasts and flowers Soon will be asleep. Jesus, give the weary Calm and sweet repose: With Thy tenderest blessing May our eyelids close. Grant to little children Visions bright of Thee; Guard the sailors tossing On the deep blue sea. Comfort every sufferer Watching late in pain; Those who plan some evil From their sin restrain. Through the long night watches May Thine angels spread Their white wings above me, Watching round my bed. When the morning wakens, Then may I arise, Pure, and fresh, and sinless In Thy holy eyes.

--S. Baring-Gould.

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THE LITTLE MOTHER By Ferruzzi

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A FAREWELL

My fairest child, I have no song to give you, No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray, Yet ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, For every day. Be good, sweet child, and let who will be clever; Do noble things, not dream them all day long, And make life, death, and that vast forever, One grand, sweet song.

--Charles Kingsley.

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GOOD NIGHT AND GOOD MORNING

A fair little girl sat under a tree Sewing as long as her eyes could see; Then smoothed her work and folded it right, And said, "Dear work, good night, good night!" Such a number of rooks came over her head Crying "Caw, caw!" on their way to bed; She said, as she watched their curious flight, "Little black things, good night, good night!" The horses neighed and the oxen lowed; The sheep's "Bleat, bleat!" came over the road, All seeming to say, with a quiet delight, "Good little girl, good night, good night!" She did not say to the sun "Good night!" Though she saw him there like a ball of light; For she knew that he had God's own time to keep All over the world, and never could sleep. The tall pink foxglove bowed his head, The violets curtsied and went to bed; And good little Lucy tied up her hair, And said, on her knees, her favorite prayer. And while on her pillow she softly lay, She knew nothing more till again it was day, And all things said to the beautiful sun, "Good morning, good morning! our work is begun!"

--Lord Houghton.

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CHRISTMAS BELLS By Edwin Howland Blashfield (1848- )

"It is the calm and solemn night! A thousand bells ring out, and throw Their joyous peals abroad, and smite The darkness, charmed and holy now! The night that erst no name had worn, To it a happy name is given; For in that stable lay new born, The peaceful Prince of Earth and Heaven, In the solemn midnight Centuries ago!"

--Alfred Domett

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NEW YEAR'S EVE

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 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.

--Alfred Tennyson.

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ALL THINGS BEAUTIFUL

All things bright and beautiful, All creatures great and small, All things wise and wonderful, The Lord God made them all. Each little flower that opens, Each little bird that sings, He made their glowing colors, He made their tiny wings. The purple-headed mountains, The river running by, The morning and the sunset That lighteth up the sky. The tall trees in the greenwood, The pleasant summer sun, The ripe fruits in the garden, He made them everyone. He gave us eyes to see them, And lips that we might tell, How great is God Almighty, Who hath made all things well.

--John Keble.

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THE CHAMBERED NAUTILUS

This is the ship of pearl, which, poets feign, Sails the unshadowed main,-- The venturous bark that flings On the sweet summer wind its purpled wings In gulfs enchanted, where the Siren sings, And coral reefs lie bare, Where the cold sea maids rise to sun their streaming hair. Its webs of living gauze no more unfurl; Wrecked is the ship of pearl! And every chambered cell, Where its dim dreaming life was wont to dwell, Before thee lies revealed,-- Its irised ceiling rent, its sunless crypt unsealed! Year after year beheld the silent toil That spread his lustrous coil; Still, as the spiral grew, He left the past year's dwelling for the new, Stole with soft step its shining archway through, Built up its idle door, Stretched in his last-found home, and knew the old no more. Thanks for the heavenly message brought by thee, Child of the wandering sea, Cast from her lap forlorn! From thy dead lips a clearer note is born Than ever Triton blew from wreathed horn. While on mine ear it rings, Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings:-- {478} Build thee more stately mansions, O my soul, As the swift seasons roll! Leave thy low-vaulted past! Let each new temple, nobler than the last, Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast, Till thou at length art free, Leaving thine outgrown shell by life's unresting sea!

--Oliver Wendell Holmes.

Used by the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

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THE CHILDREN OF THE SHELL By Murillo (1618-1682)

This is one of the famous pictures of the great artist Murillo. The little child John is giving the little Jesus a drink from a shell. "The child nature is charmingly portrayed, so innocent and gentle--seeming to suggest a lovable nature in the artist himself. His pictures always arouse the reverential feeling--which puts the stamp of artistic greatness upon them."

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THE DAY IS DONE

The day is done, and the darkness Falls from the wings of Night, As a feather is wafted downward From an eagle in his flight. I see the lights of the village Gleam through the rain and the mist, And a feeling of sadness comes o'er me That my soul cannot resist: A feeling of sadness and longing, That is not akin to pain, And resembles sorrow only As the mist resembles the rain. Come, read to me some poem, Some simple and heartfelt lay, That shall soothe this restless feeling, And banish the thoughts of day. Not from the grand old masters, Not from the bards sublime, Whose distant footsteps echo Through the corridors of Time. For, like strains of martial music, Their mighty thoughts suggest Life's endless toil and endeavor; And to-night I long for rest. Read from some humbler poet, Whose songs gushed from his heart, As showers from the clouds of summer, Or tears from the eyelids start; {482} Who, through long days of labor, And nights devoid of ease, Still heard in his soul the music Of wonderful melodies. Such songs have power to quiet The restless pulse of care, And come like the benediction That follows after prayer. Then read from the treasured volume The poem of thy choice, And lend to the rhyme of the poet The beauty of thy voice. And the night shall be filled with music, And the cares that infest the day, Shall fold their tents, like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Used by the kind permission of Houghton, Mifflin and Company.

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A CHILD'S THOUGHT OF GOD

They say that God lives very high. But if you look above the pines You cannot see God. And why? And if you dig down in the mines You never see Him in the gold Though from Him all that's glory shines. God is so good, He wears a fold Of heaven and earth across His face-- Like secrets kept, for love, untold. But still I feel that His embrace Slides down by thrills, through all things made, Through sight and sound of every place: As if my tender mother laid On my shut lids her kisses' pressure, Half waking me at night; and said, "Who kissed through the dark, dear guesser?"

--Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

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LULLABY SONG

Sleep, baby, sleep! Thy father watches his sheep; Thy mother is shaking the dreamland tree, And down comes a little dream on thee. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! The large stars are the sheep; The little stars are the lambs, I guess; And the gentle moon is the shepherdess. Sleep, baby, sleep! Sleep, baby, sleep! Our Saviour loves His sheep: He is the Lamb of God on high, Who for our sakes came down to die. Sleep, baby, sleep!

--From the German.

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HEAD OF ANGEL

"See that ye despise not one of these little ones; for I say unto you, that in heaven their angels do always behold the face of my Father which is in heaven."--The Words of Jesus

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THE PILGRIMS OF THE NIGHT

Hark, hark, my soul, angelic songs are swelling O'er earth's green fields and ocean's wave-beat shore. How sweet the truth those blessed strains are telling Of that new life, when sin shall be no more. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of the night. Onward we go, for still we hear them singing, "Come, weary souls, for Jesus bids you come." And through the dark, its echoes sweetly ringing, The music of the gospel leads us home. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of the night. Far, far away, like bells at evening pealing, The voice of Jesus sounds o'er land and sea; And laden souls by thousands meekly stealing, Kind Shepherd, turn their weary steps to Thee. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of the night. {488} Rest comes at last; though life be long and dreary, The day must dawn, and darksome night be past; All journeys end in welcomes to the weary, And heaven, the heart's true home, will come at last. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of the night. Angels, sing on, your faithful watches keeping, Sing us sweet fragments of the songs above, While we toil on, and soothe ourselves with weeping, Till life's long night shall break in endless love. Angels of Jesus, Angels of light, Singing to welcome The pilgrims of the night.

--Frederick William Faber.

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