As fresh in yon horizon dark,
As young thy beauties seem,
As when the eagle from the ark
First sported in thy beam.

For faithful to its sacred page,

Heaven still rebuilds thy span,

Nor lets the type grow pale with age,
That first spoke peace to man.

T. Campbell

CCXXI

THE WILD FOWL'S VOICE

It chanced upon the merry merry Christmas eve, I went sighing past the church across the moorlard

dreary

O never sin and want and woe this earth will

leave,

And the bells but mock the wailing sound, they sing so cheery.

How long, O Lord! how long, before Thou come

again?

Still in cellar, and in garret, and on mountain dreary,

The orphans moan, and widows weep, and poor men toil in vain,

Till earth is sick of hope deferr'd, though Christmas bells be cheery.

Then arose a joyous clamour, from the wild fowl

on the mere,

Beneath the stars, across the snow, like clear bells ringing,

And a voice within cried-"Listen !-Christmas carols even here

Though thou be dumb, yet o'er their work, the stars and snows are singing.

Blind !—I live, I love, I reign; and all the nations through,

With the thunder of My judgments even now are ringing;

Do thou fulfil thy work, but as yon wild fowl do, Thou wilt heed no less the wailing, yet hear through it angels singing."

CCXXII

C. Kingsley

ROBIN REDBREAST

Sweet Robin, I have heard them say,
That thou wert there upon the day,
That Christ was crown'd in cruel scorn;
And bore away one bleeding thorn,
That so, the blush upon thy breast,
In shameful sorrow was imprest:
And thence thy genial sympathy,
With our redeemed humanity.

Sweet Robin, would that I might be
Bath'd in my Saviour's blood, like thee;
Bear in my breast, whate'er the loss,
The bleeding blazon of the cross;

Live ever, with thy loving mind,
In fellowship with human kind;
And take my pattern still from thee,
In gentleness and constancy.

Bishop Doane

CCXXIII

THE SEA-BIRD.

Sea-bird! haunter of the wave,
Delighting o'er its crest to hover ;
Half engulphed where yawns the cave
The billow forms in rolling over;
Sea-bird seeker of the storm!

In its shriek thou dost rejoice;
Sending from thy bosom warm
Answer shriller than its voice.

Bird of nervous wingèd flight,
Flashing silvery to the sun,
Sporting with the sea-foam white,

When will thy wild course be done?
Whither tends it? Has the shore
No alluring haunt for thee?
Nook with tangled vines grown o'er,
Scented shrub, or leafy tree?

Is the purple sea-weed rarer

Than the violet of the spring? Is the snowy foam wreath fairer Than the apple's blossoming?

Shady grove and sunny slope

Seek but these, and thou shalt meet Birds not born with storm to cope, Hermits of retirement sweet.

Where no winds too rudely swell,
But in whispers, as they pass,
Of the fragrant flow'ret tell,
Hidden in the tender grass.
There the mock-bird sings of love;
There the robin builds his nest ;
There the gentle-hearted dove,
Brooding, takes her blissful rest.

Sea-bird, stay thy rapid flight:

Gone! where dark waves foam and dash,

Like a lone star on the night—

Far I see his white wing flash.

He obeyeth God's behest,

All their destiny fulfil :
Tempests some are born to breast-
Some to worship, and be still.

If I struggle with the storm
On life's ever-changing sea,
Where cold mists enwrap the form,
My harsh destiny must be.
Sea-bird! thus may I abide

Cheerful the allotment given,

And, rising o'er the ruffled tide,

Escape, at last, like thee, to heaven?

A. M. Wells

CCXXIV

THE LEGEND OF THE CROSSBILL

From the German

On the cross the dying Saviour
Heavenward lifts his eyelids calm,
Feels, but scarcely feels, a trembling
In His pierced and bleeding palm.

And by all the world forsaken,
Sees He how with zealous care,
At the ruthless nail of iron,

A little bird is striving there.

Stain'd with blood, and never tiring,
With its beak it doth not cease;
From the Cross 'twould free the Saviour,-
Its Creator's Son release.

And the Saviour speaks in mildness :
"Blest be thou of all the good!

Bear as tokens of this moment
Marks of blood and holy rood!"

And that bird is call'd the crossbill,
Cover'd all with blood so clear,
In the groves of pine it singeth
Songs, like legends, strange to hear.

H. W. Longfellow