"O Lord, I thank Thee that my feeble strength Has been so blest; that sinful hearts and cold Were melted at my pleading,-knew at length

How sweet Thy service and how safe Thy fold ; While souls that loved Thee saw before them rise Still holier heights of loving sacrifice."

So prayed the Monk; when suddenly he heard
An Angel speaking thus: "Know, O my Son,
Thy words had all been vain, but hearts were stirred,
And saints were edified, and sinners won,

By his, the poor lay Brother's humble aid,
Who sat upon the pulpit stair and prayed."

THE LOST CHORD.

BY A. A. PROCTER.

SEATED one day at the organ,
I was weary and ill at ease,
And my fingers wandered idly
Over the noisy keys.

I know not what I was playing,
Or of what I was dreaming then,
But I struck one chord of music
Like the sound of a great Amen.
It flooded the crimson twilight
Like the close of an Angel's Psalm,
And it lay on my fevered spirit
With a touch of holy calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow
Like love o'ercoming strife,
It seemed an harmonious echo
From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings
Into one of perfect peace,
And trembled away into silence,
As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought it, but seek it vainly,
That one lost chord divine

That came from the soul of the organ
And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright Angel
Will speak in that chord again,
may be that only in Heaven

It

I shall hear that grand Amen.

THE SHEPHERDESSES OF BETHLEHEM.

BY CARD. WISEMAN.

Abigail.

ANGELS bright! is this the place,

Where we should seek this Child of grace?

For a palace, in a stable,

With the manger for His bed:
Was not man to furnish able
A better roof above His head,
Or a softer couch to spread ?
Angels fair! your wings unfold,
To screen from winter's nipping cold,
That tender flesh, those trembling limbs :
And lull, with your most soothing hymns,
That darling Babe to gentle sleep.

Rachel.

See, dear sister, see Him weep!
Lovely Infant! for what reason?
'Tis not the inclement season-
'Tis not that Thy sweet eyes borrow,
From dear Mary's, looks of sorrow-
For her face is flushed with joy,
Gazing on her peerless boy.

No, the fountain's not on earth

Where those streams receive their birth; Whose each brilliant drop appears

Bright as gems the High Priest wears.

Rebecca.

True, dear friends, for yesterday,
I heard the good old Anna say,
The Child in Bethlehem to be born,
So beautiful, yet so forlorn,

Was destined, after grief and loss-
After buffets, stripes, and scorn—
To die upon a shameful Cross.

Abigail.

Oh, no, no! it cannot be

For one so good, so sweet as He !

Rachel.

At least as yet He cannot know

This dreadful fate.

Rebecca.

Alas, not so!

This Child is God, Who all created,
Who knoweth all above, below.

Abigail and Rachel.

God! How thus can He be treated!

Rebecca.

Ah, dear children! for our sins-
Yours and mine-He now begins
A life of sorrow, to be ended
Only when, with arms extended,
On the Cross He yields His breath,
To buy us life with His own death.

Abigail.

Oh! dear Infant, can I ever
Be to Thee a cause of pain?

Rachel.

Blessed Child! Oh, I will never
Sin, and bring thee grief again!

Both (kneeling).

With our heart and soul we love Thee!
With Thee, her who bends above Thee!
We are children, Thou our Brother,
We are orphans, she our mother.
Make us be like both of you,
Pious, meek, obedient, true,
Faithful, humble, and resigned,
Loving God and all mankind.
If we love Thy Christmas tree,
May we love Thy Cross no less,
Each our joys or griefs will bless-

Where'er Thou art, Thine orphans wish to be!

OBEDIENCE TO THE HEAVENLY CALL.

HIDDEN GEM. ACT I. SCENE 1.

BY CARD. WISEMAN.

Alexius.

THUS far I feel that to the very letter I have obeyed the clear commands of heaven. "Where first thine eyes saw light, there must they close :

Where first thy life began, there shall it end."
Such were the words the voice mysterious spoke.
So, longing to complete my pilgrimage,
Once more I stand, where haughty Aventine
Crushes, with craggy heel, the serpent neck
Of writhing Tiber; while, between the peaks
Of Sabine hills, the sun shoots forked beams,
Hanging the gems of morning on each leaf.
If Italy, or Rome, or Aventine

Was meant, my goal is reached-but oh, remains there

One step more, o'er that threshold [looking towards Euphemianus' house]—there to die?

For there I first drew breath.-It cannot be.

Five years it is to-day, since I was sent, Like him of Ur, from father's house and kindred. What sorrow, perhaps worse, hath been endured For me within the compass of those walls! Livest thou yet, sweet mother? Dost thou shake Thy palsied head and quivering hand, in anguish, O'er thy long-lost, but unforgotten child? Or dost thou, from thy patiently won throne, Look down and smile, upon thy pilgrim son?