Part 2 — THE CHAPEL.

On the outskirts of the city, where the poor and outcast dwell, Is a humble little chapel, in its tower a sweet-voiced bell; And beside its simple altar, with a smile serene and mild, Stands a rudely-sculptured image of the Virgin and her Child.

In the early, dewy mornings, when the grass-grown walks are bright, When beyond the chimneys glimmer the far mountain-tops with light, Here a crowd of poor and lowly to the dust their heads incline, As the chalice of salvation is uplifted o'er the shrine.

Yonder, in the great cathedral, oriel tints the banners stain, On the purple and the mitre slanting down the pictured pane; And the statues high in niches, and the chanting of the choir, All art's mighty inspirations to the tired heart say, "Aspire!"

Here heaven's pure white light streams inward; here through open windows sweet Blow the fresh airs on the wild flowers at the Virgin Mother's feet, And sweet, silvery, girlish voices sweetly chant a simple strain, Such as shepherds might have chanted on the old Chaldean plain.

Often when my heart grows restless, burdened with earth's cares, and sore, Come I to this humble chapel, kneel down on the wooden floor; Those poor ragged outcasts round me, praying side by side with them, Wondrously I seem drawn nearer to the crib of Bethlehem.

These pale faces, seamed and weary, seeking solace here, and peace, Speak more eloquent a language than the olden seers of Greece; More than Plato taught when round him stood the Athenians rapt and dumb; More of wisdom than e'er echoed through the groves of Tusculum.

The poor lives and poor endeavors of these toilers of the sod Teach life's grand and noble lessons—patience, faith, and trust in God; And the weight of earth falls from me, for I hear a soft voice thrill, And my heart lies down in quiet as it whispers, "Peace, be still!"