He stoop'd, and press'd the frozen cheek,
And the heavy hand of clay;
Till bursting words-yet all too weak-
Gave his soul's passion way.

'O father! is it vain,

This late remorse and deep?
Speak to me, father, once again!
I weep-behold I weep!
Alas! my guilty pride and ire !-
Were but this work undone,

I would give England's crown, my sire,
To hear thee bless thy son.

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!
And father, father! but for me,
They had not been so white!

I bore thee down, high heart! at last,
No longer couldst thou strive,
Oh! for one moment of the past,
To kneel and say-"forgive.'

'Thou wert the noblest king

On royal throne e'er seen;

And thou didst wear in knightly ring
Of all the stateliest mien;

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
Didst take fond joy to be !—
The times I've sported by thy side,
And climb'd thy parent knee!
And then before the blessed shrine,
My sire! I see thee lie,-

How will that sad still face of thine
Look on me till I die!'

FAITH.

Keeble.

THY God hath said 'tis good for thee
To walk by faith and not by sight;
Take it on trust a little while,
Soon shalt thou read the mystery right
In the bright sunshine of his smile.

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
The silent street.

Alone and very sorrowful is he,

Fatherless and motherless;

He has no friend on earth a Christmas-tree
For him to dress.

With fearful gaze he turns his steps aside
Where gleams the light

From a tall house, and youthful figures glide
Before his sight.

As each, with festal dress and happy brow,
Surrounds a gorgeous tree;

And there he asks, 'Amid these is there now
No place for me?

"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,
With grateful prayer,

That they the sad reverse may never know
Which brings him there.

Alas! alas! no place for him is there—
With scornful jest

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
More to their share!

Hark! 'tis a burst of hearty merriment—
The child draws nigh-

'Tis from a burgher's simple tenement.
With longing sigh

He watches the glad group of faces bright,
And so for him

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
With grief indeed,

He gazes through the latticed window paneNo one takes heed!

Weeping he turns away, and passes by
Both light and sound

From many a humble roof and mansion high
Scattered around;

Then pauses meekly by the lowliest door,
Where a faint ray

Breaks through, and shows how fast the little

store

Of tapers wears away.

Alas! alas, his latest hope is vain—
By word and blow

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,
And kneeleth low.

In prayer to Him who is not slow to hear
He kneeleth there,

And soon he sees a little child draw near,
Exceeding fair;