That even His brightness may not quite efface That the dear human likeness each may trace That we may not cease loving, only taught Holier desiring; More faith, more patience; with more wisdom fraught, Higher aspiring. That we may do all work we left undone Through sad unmeetness; From height to height celestial passing on Then, strong Azrael, be thy supreme call Or like this blast, whose loud fiend festival I will not fear thee. If thou safely keep My soul, God's giving, And my soul's soul, I, waking from death-sleep, A SILLY SONG. O heart, my heart!" she said, and heard May rain was softly falling, Aye softly, softly falling. The buttercups across the field Made sunshine rifts of splendor: The round snow bud of the thorn in the wood As the rain came softly falling. "O heart, my heart!" she said and smiled, Or a leaf I wis which the sun's soft kiss Where the drops keep ever falling,— There's not a foolish flower i' the grass, Or bird through the woodland calling, A CHRISTMAS CAROL. TUNE-"God rest ye, merry gentlemen." God rest ye, merry gentlemen; let nothing you dismay, gray, When Jesus Christ, our Saviour, was born on Christmas-day. God rest ye, little children; let nothing you affright, For Jesus Christ, your Saviour, was born this happy night; When Christ, the child of Nazareth, was born on Christmas day. God rest ye, all good Christians; upon this blessed morn С.Р. Станево THE BOBOLINKS. When Nature had made all her birds, She laughed again,-out flew a mate. A breeze of Eden bore them Across the fields of Paradise, The sunshine reddening o'er them. Incarnate sport and holiday, They flew and sang forever; Their souls through June were all in tune, Their wings were weary never. The blithest song of breezy farms, Their tribe, still drunk with air and light In sunshine and in shadow. One springs from out the dew-wet grass, The morn is thrilling with their songs And peals of fairy laughter. From out the marshes and the brook Half prattling and half singing. When morning winds sweep meadow lands And toss the lonely elm-tree's boughs, I see you buffeting the breeze, Or with its motion swaying, Your notes half-drowned against the wind Or down the current playing. When far away o'er grassy flats, Where the thick wood commences, The white-sleeved mowers look like specks Beyond the zigzag fences, And noon is hot, and barn-roofs gleam I hear the saucy minstrels still When Eve her domes of opal fire Or thunder rolls from hill to hill A Kyrie Eleison,— |