He stoop'd, and press'd the frozen cheek, 'O father! is it vain, This late remorse and deep? I would give England's crown, my sire, Speak to me! mighty grief Ere now the dust hath stir'd! Hear me, but hear me !-father, chief, My king! I must be heard! Hush'd, hush'd-how is it that I call, And that thou answerest not? When was it thus? Woe, woe for all The love my soul forgot! "Thy silver hairs I see, So still, so sadly bright! I bore thee down, high heart! at last, 'Thou wert the noblest king On royal throne e'er seen; And thou didst wear in knightly ring And thou didst prove, where spears are proved, In war the bravest heart: Oh! ever the renown'd and loved Thou wert-and there thou art! Thou that my boyhood's guide How will that sad still face of thine FAITH. Keeble. THY God hath said 'tis good for thee THE LEGEND OF THE CHRISTMAS TREE. Auon. 'Tis Christmas Eve, and through the ancient town, Rest and rejoicing meet— A little child comes wand'ring sadly down Alone and very sorrowful is he, Fatherless and motherless; He has no friend on earth a Christmas-tree With fearful gaze he turns his steps aside From a tall house, and youthful figures glide As each, with festal dress and happy brow, And there he asks, 'Amid these is there now "They look so happy, surely they are kind.' With trembling hand He gently knocks, and craves a place to find Where he may stand, Contented but to gaze upon the show, That they the sad reverse may never know Alas! alas! no place for him is there— They drive him forth into the cold night air, To seek for rest 'Neath some more modest roof, where warmer hearts A nook may spare, And gladly own that sharing joy imparts Hark! 'tis a burst of hearty merriment— 'Tis from a burgher's simple tenement. He watches the glad group of faces bright, He thinks the fir-tree once was decked with light; His eyes grow dim. And timidly he knocks, again to tell His piteous tale. Alas! for him-on stony ears it fell Without avail ! The door is closed against him, and in vain He gazes through the latticed window paneNo one takes heed! Weeping he turns away, and passes by From many a humble roof and mansion high Then pauses meekly by the lowliest door, Breaks through, and shows how fast the little store Of tapers wears away. Alas! alas, his latest hope is vain— Of harsh unkindness driven back again, Where shall he go? The night is dark-but the poor orphan child, Amid his woe, Bethinks him of the infant Saviour mild, In prayer to Him who is not slow to hear And soon he sees a little child draw near, |