'Tis not, "the Christ the Lord :"
With fixed adoring look

The choir of angels caught the word,

Nor yet their silence broke :

But when they heard the sign, where Christ should be, In sudden light they shone and heavenly harmony.

Wrapped in His swaddling bands

And in His manger laid,

The hope and glory of all lands

Is come to the world's aid ;

No peaceful home upon His cradle smiled,

Guests rudely went and came, where slept the royal Child.

But where thou dwellest, Lord,

No other thought should be,

Once duly welcomed and adored,

How should I part with Thee?

Bethlehem must lose Thee soon, but Thou wilt grace The single heart to be Thy sure abiding-place.

Thee, on the bosom laid

Of a pure virgin mind,

In quiet ever and in shade,

Shepherd and sage may find;

They who had bowed untaught to nature's sway,
And they who followed truth along her star-paved way.

The pastoral spirits first

Approach Thee, Babe divine,

For they in lowly thoughts are nursed,

Meet for Thy lowly shrine;

Sooner then they should miss where Thou dost dwell Angels from heaven will stoop to guide them to Thy cell.

Still, as the day comes round

For Thee to be revealed,

By wakeful shepherds Thou art found,

Abiding in the field;

All through the wintry heaven and chill night air In music and in light Thou dawnest on their prayer.

Oh faint not ye for fear

What though your wandering sheep,

Reckless of what they see and hear,

Lie lost in wilful sleep?

High heaven, in mercy to your sad annoy, Still greets you with glad tidings of immortal joy.

Think on the eternal home,

The Saviour left for you;

Think on the Lord most holy, come
To dwell with hearts untrue :

So shall ye tread untired His pastoral ways,
And in the darkness sing your carol of high praise.

Still through the cloven skies they come,
With peaceful wings unfurled,
And still their heavenly music floats
O'er all the weary world.

Above its sad and lowly plains

Thy bend on heavenly wing,
And ever o'er its Babel sounds
The blessed angels sing.

Yet with the woes of sin and strife
The world has suffered long,
Beneath the angel-strain have rolled
Two thousand years of wrong;
And man, at war with man, hears not
The love-song which they bring,-
Oh hush the noise, ye men of strife,
And hear the angels sing!

And ye, beneath life's crushing load
Whose forms are bending low,
Who toil along the climbing way,
With painful steps and slow;
Look now, for glad and golden hours
Come swiftly on the wing-

Oh rest beside the weary road
And hear the angels sing!

For lo the days are hastening on,
By prophet-bards foretold,
When, with the ever-circling years,
Comes round the age of gold!
When peace shall over all the earth
Its ancient splendours fling,

And the whole world send back the song
Which now the angels sing.

Robins and their Songs.

OBIN, to the bare bough clinging,
What can thy blithe music mean?
Like a hidden fount, thy singing

Seems to clothe the trees with green.

What warm nest for thee hath nature
Where thy soft red breast to lay?
Sing'st thou, little homeless creature,
For the crumbs we strewed to-day?

Other birds have fled this dun light,
Soaring on to regions fair,
Singing in the richest sunlight,
Singing in the starlit air;

Hiding 'mid the broad-leaved shadows
Of the southern woods at noon,
Filling all the flower-starred meadows
With the melodies of June.

Knowest thou the woods have voices, Poet-voices, full and clear ;

Strains at which the heart rejoices,

Feeling the unspoken near;