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“ Will no kind hand relieve
The orphan's deep dejection?
But only the reflection
On window and on shutter,
The weak words he doth utler,
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.
THE SHADE OF THE LEAVES.
FROM THE SPANISH.
* Con el viento murmuran
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
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.
If by chance I awaken,
Pain and sorrow have taken
They cannot be found
The tranquil rebound
While I sleep at the sound
THE BLIND OLD MAN.
FROM THE FRENCII OF ANDRE CHENIER.
“ God of Claros, God of the Silver Bow-
“ Sure this must be some dweller of the skies !”
He hears their steps—is troubled-in despair
“ Children—for child-like, tender, soft, and sweet,