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“ Will no kind hand relieve

The orphan's deep dejection?
Alas! I must receive

But only the reflection
Of this strange Christmas eve !"
He taps with fingers thin

On window and on shutter,
They hear not for the din,

The weak words he doth utler,
Nor let the orphan in.

The father's lessons mild

The listening boy's ear drinkethThe Christmas gifts are piled

By mother's hands. None thinketh Of that poor orphan child.

« Oh! Christ, my Saviour dear,

No father and no mother Have I my heart to cheer,

Be ali to me, no other Consoler have I here."

Cold, cold his small hand grows,

He rubs his frozen fingers He shivers in his clothes,

And in the white street lingers With eyes that will not close.

There cometh with a light,

Which through the dark street breaketh, In robes of simple white,

Another child—who speaketh These sweet words of delight :

“ Behold thy Christ in me,

Again a child's form takingA little child like thee

Though all are thee forsaking, By me thou shalt not be:

“My word's impartial boon

I waft o'er hill and valley, I send my aid as soon

To this poor wretched alley, As to yon gay saloon :

“My hands, with light divine

Thy Christmas tree shall kindle. Thou'lt see, compared with thine,

All other trees shall dwindle, How beautiful they shine.”

To Heaven his little hand

The infant Saviour raiseth There doth a great tree stand,

Whose star-lit branch outblazeth All o'er the azure land:

The child's heart bounds with glee,

At all the starry tapers His eyes grow bright to see

Through Heaven's transparent vapours That glorious Christmas tree !

Before his wondering eyes

A glorious vision shiftedA dream of Paradise !

For Angel hands uplifted The orphan to the skies.

Within that blessèd sphere

A home he now hath gottenEven with his Saviour dear :

There soon is all forgotten That he hath suffered here.



* Con el viento murmuran
Madre, las hojas.
Y al sonido me duermo
Bajo su sombra."

The wind murmurs round,

As the bough gently heaves ; And I sleep at the sound

In the shade of the leaves :

My thoughts gently glide

Where the sweet zephyr bloweth,

As a light vessel floweth
Away o'er the tide ;
And my senses are drowned

In the bright dews of heaven,

And the rapture is given That so seldom is found

Where mortality grieves. As I sleep at the sound

In the shade of the leaves.

Mid the flowers still I rest :

If by chance I awaken,

Pain and sorrow have taken
Their flight from my breast

They cannot be found
In the heart of the dreamer.
There is nought but the tremor,

The tranquil rebound
Of the bough, as it heaves-

While I sleep at the sound
In the shade of the leaves.




“ God of Claros, God of the Silver Bow-
Sminthean Apollo, if thou dost not show
Light to these wandering feet and sightless eyes,
Here must I perish beyond doubt!". With sighs
'Twas thus the old man ceased his piteous plaint,
And near a wood he walked, feeble and faint,
And there upon a mossy stone sat down ;-
Three shepherds, children of that soil, with brown
Cheeks, shaded o'er with clustering, golden locks,
Followed him : by the bleating of their flocks
And their loud-barking mastiffs, thither led.
Him they protected, as he feebly fled
From their rude dogs' inhospitable rage,
Restraining them : and as they reached the sage,
And heard his voice, and saw his sightless eyes,

“ Sure this must be some dweller of the skies !”
They cried aloud. -—" His face is full of pride,
And, from the rustic girdle round him tied,
Hangs a rude lyre-and his deep voice doth seem
To move the air and the woods—the heavens and the ocean stream.”

He hears their steps—is troubled-in despair
Turns his quick ear, and lifts his hands in prayer :
-“ Fear not, unhappy stranger,” they exclaim,
“ If thou, indeed, beneath this earthly frame,
Art not some heavenly messenger of peace-
Some god-some patron deity of Greece;
Such god-like grace ennobles thy old age !
Or if but only mortal, thou dost wage
Unequal war with fate—the pitying wave
That saved you from a wild and unknown grave,
Has cast you among men who've learned to know,
And feel, not aggravate a brother's woe.
Strange that the destinies for ever blend
Some balanced ill with every joy they send !-
Heaven, that did give thee such a voice, denies
The light of day unto thy darkened eyes.”

“ Children—for child-like, tender, soft, and sweet,
Fall your young voices on my ear-discreet,
More than I could have hoped for from your years,
Are all your words : but the poor stranger fears
His woes can wake but outrage and disdain.
Do not compare me with the immortal train.
This endless night-these wrinkles—this white hair-
Is this a forehead for a god to wear?-
Ah! I am but a man, and one of those
Whose fate is wretchedness: If bent with woes,
Wandering and poor, some wretch has pass'd along,
With him you may compare me. Though in song
I never yet, like Thamyris, aspired
To vie with Phæbus: never yet, inspired
By the Eumenides, have I had cause
To punish on myself the offended laws

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