Triumphal arches, gleaming, swell

His breast with thoughts of boundless sway; What recked the Roman what befell A paltry province far away, In the solemn midnight, Centuries ago?

Within that province far away
Went plodding home a weary boor;
A streak of light before him lay,
Fallen through a half-shut stable-door
Across his path. He paused, for naught
Told what was going on within ;
How keen the stars, his only thought;
The air how calm, and cold, and thin,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

O strange indifference! — low and high
Drowsed over common joys and cares;
The earth was still, but knew not why;
The world was listening unawares!
How calm a moment may precede

One that shall thrill the world for ever! To that still moment none would heed, Man's doom was linked, no more to sever, In the solemn midnight,

Centuries ago!

THE CHRISTMAS BELL.

It is the calm and solemn night!

A thousand bells ring out, and throw
Their joyous peals abroad, and smite

The darkness, charmed and holy now!
The night that erst no shame had worn,
To it a happy name is given;
For in that stable lay, new-born,

The peaceful Prince of earth and heaven,
In the solemn midnight,
Centuries ago!

THE CHRISTMAS BELL.

ROBERT P. ROGERS.

LONG ages it hath been ringing
Since the angels sang by night,
And the star bent over the manger
With its benison of light.

I hear the stream of its music
Flow down the distance past,
A lullaby breathed to the present,
A requiem to the past.

It comes on the air of winter,
And the air is filled with snow,
So that the sound is deadened
Till the music is deep and low.

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But every ear that will listen
May catch its wavering tone
And every heart find a meaning
Meant for itself alone.

To some it comes as a warning
Of trial's turbulent tide,

That will strengthen the feeble spirit,
Or humble its erring pride.

While to many, the young and happy
Who have little pain to bear,
It peals like the bells of a bridal
That play with the summer air.

And to others, the pale and weary
Who have garnered their sheaves,
It flows with a heavenly summons,

Like the dropping of autumn leaves.

To the wretched, the sorely tempted, To the bowed, subdued by sorrow, It comes with the voice of blessing, And whispers hope for the morrow.

But to all of us wandering pilgrims
O may these varied chimes
Ring as a beautiful prelude
To another march of times,

DANGER OF PRAISE.

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Bringing us sweet assurance

Of the love of earthly friends,
And the care of the dear departed,
And the hope that heaven sends.

And so will the angel music,
This midnight dark and deep,
As it floats around our pillows,
Hush every care to sleep.

And our dreams of untroubled slumber,
Like shepherds, will watch on high
The star of joy and of promise

As it shone in Bethlehem's sky.

DANGER OF PRAISE.

KEBLE. LYRA INNOCENTIUM.

"And he confessed and denied not; but confessed, I am not the Christ."

WHEN mortals praise thee, hide thine eyes,

Nor in thy Master's wrong

Take to thyself his crown and prize;

Yet more in heart than tongue.

None holier than the Desert priest
Beneath the Law's dim sky,

Yet in Heaven's kingdom with the least,
We read, he might not vie.

No member, yet, of Christ the Son,
No Gospel prophet he;
Only a voice from out the throne
Of dread yet blest decree.

If he confessed, nor dared deny,
Woe to that Christian's heart

Who in man's praise would walk on high,
And steal his Saviour's part!

And ah! to him what tenfold woe,

Who hides so well his sin,
Through earth he seems a saint to go,
Yet dies impure within!

Pray we our Lord, one pang to send
Of deep, remorseful fear

For every smile of partial friend; —
Praise be our penance here!