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And as one eve she lingered
Amid e roll of anthems, .
Through sounding aisles and arches,
"I am small and poor," said Freda,
Save my flower, within whose petals
My lily, with snow-white blossoms,
The wind from the distant forest
Then home she ran through the darkness,
She brought her beautiful lily
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,
"I give to the dear Lord Jesus The only treasure mine!"
Gold gleamed upon the altar
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
Ah! richer than gold or silver,
And wealth and rank above,
With heavenly store forever
Its weight from our hearts He lifts.
For thorns He gives us roses,
Bright smiles for earth's cold frowns;
rah D. Hobart.
THE ICE-FLOWER ON MOUNT CENIS.
WHERE the snow lies deepest, by the frozen lake,
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;
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
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.
OVER my head, in the morning early,
Out in the fast-awakening street.
And so this morn, when I heard the clatter,
And bothered my brain to guess the matter