And as one eve she lingered
By the old cathedral grim,
Where swelled the organ's music

And rang the holy hymn,

Amid he roll of anthems,

And wailing of the psalms, She heard the old priest pleading, "Bring, bring to the Lord thine alms!"

Through sounding aisles and arches,
It rang like a trumpet call;
"Who gives to the dear Lord Jesus
The holiest gift of all?"

"I am small and poor," said Freda,
"No offering can I bring

Save my flower, within whose petals
Are folded angel's wings,—

"My lily, with snow-white blossoms,
And green leaves arching o'er;
But life will be darker than ever
When it blooms for me no more.

The wind from the distant forest.
Came with a dirge-like moan,
"Why should I fear?" said Freda,

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"Will the Lord not keep His own?"

Then home she ran through the darkness,
And out from the garret's gloom

She brought her beautiful lily
With its fragrant, rare perfume.

Her eyes were sadly tearful

As she passed thro' the wondering throng, But she thought of the holy Saviour,

And her fainting heart grew strong.

And she said, while her blue eyes brightened With the light of a love divine,

Gold gleamed upon the altar
And gems of richest cost,

But the priest said, bending reverent,
"This child has given the most!"

Then lo, a beauteous marvel!

The dew-drops pearls became;

Each flower was a golden lily,
Each leaf was a leaf of flame;

And there beside the altar

The Christ-child seemed to stand, And the crown reserved for the sainted Gleamed bright within His hand,

And His voice in silvery accents
Rang through the lofty hall:
"A crown of light for Freda
Who gives to the Lord her all!"

Ah! richer than gold or silver,
And wealth and rank above,
In the sight of the dear Lord Jesus
Is a child's unsullied love.

With heavenly store forever
Doth He repay our gifts,
And when we take our burden
Its weight from our hearts He lifts.

For thorns He gives us roses,

Bright smiles for earth's cold frowns;

For moans the harp's glad music,

And for crosses golden crowns!

irah D. Hobart.

THE ICE-FLOWER ON MOUNT CENIS.

WHERE the snow lies deepest, by the frozen lake,
There the lovely ice-flow'r doth her station take;
Spreading wide her mantle of delicious blue,
Not the midnight heavens boast a deeper hue.

I had climbed the mountain, leaving with a sigh Chestnut woods and vineyards, and a southern sky; Matchless charms resigning, nevermore to see,

When, with sweet surprisal, fell my eyes on thee.

Strange thy choice, bright flower, thus 'mid ice to bloom,

Shedding life and gladness here, where all is gloom:

Had the earth no hedgerow, garden, or parterre, Warmer, kindlier shelter for a thing so fair?

Did no sunbeams linger in the vale below? Seemed their shining brighter here, amid the snow?

Or, with lavish sweetness, wouldst thou fling thy

store

Like a royal giver at the poorest door?

Dear to me our meeting, and the thoughts it brings,

Memories and fancies, sweet imaginings;

Pictures of a friendship not in thoughtless youth, But in sadder manhood when we love in truth.

Deeper and intenser are the ties that bind

Hearts whom kindred natures late have chanced to find;

Life, it may be, waning, youth long past-when lo!

One last, precious blossom greets us from the

snow.

In the rock fast rooted it hath found its stay;
Mortal hand shall never tear those roots away:
Still through frost and tempest it will yield its
bloom,

And its choicest beauty wreathe around the tomb.
Songs in the Night.

THE PATTER OF LITTLE FEET.

ÖVER my head, in the morning early,
I heard the patter of little feet,
Rising above the hurly-burly

Out in the fast-awakening street.
I like my nap in the morning early,-

That drowsy, sleeping, waking time,

And am apt to give way to a touch of the surly
With one who breaks on its soothing rhyme.

And so this morn, when I heard the clatter,
I turned uneasily in my bed,

And bothered my brain to guess the matter

With the little ones pattering over my head.