THE BIRTH OF THE YEAR.

Quickly he shall awake; the East is bright,

And the hot glow of the unseen sun

Hath kissed his brow with promise of its light;
His cheek is red with victory to be won.

Quickly shall our king awake,

Strong as giants, and arise;

Sager than old and wise

The infant shall awake.

His childhood shall be forward, wild, and thwart;

His gladness fitful, and his anger blind;

But tender spirits shall o'ertake his heart

Sweet tears and golden moments bland and kind;
He shall give delight and take,

Charm and chant, dismay and soothe,

Raise the dead and touch with youth

Oh, sing that he may wake!

Where is the sword to gird upon his thigh?
Where is the armor and his laurel crown?

For he shall be a conqueror ere he die,

And win him kingdoms wider than his own!

Like the earthquake he shall shake

Cities down, and waste like fire,

Then build them stronger, pile them higher,
When he shall awake.

In the dark spheres of his unclosed eyes

The sheeted lightnings lie, and clouded stars, That shall glance softly, as in Summer skies,

Or stream o'er thirsty deserts, winged with wars;

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For in the pauses of dread hours
He shall fling his arms off,

And, like a reveler, sing and laugh,
And dance in ladies' bowers.

Ofttimes in his midsummer he shall turn

To look upon the dead bloom with weeping eyes;

O'er ashes of frail beauty stand and mourn,

And kiss the bier of stricken hopes with sighs.

Ofttimes, like light of onward seas,

He shall hail great days to come,

Or hear the first dread note of doom

Like torrents on the breeze.

His manhood shall be blissful and sublime,

With stormy sorrows and serenest pleasures,

And his crowned age upon the top of Time

Shall throne him great in glories, rich in treasures.

The sun is up, the day is breaking;

Sing ye sweetly; draw anear;

Immortal be the new-born year,

And blessed be its waking.

Easter Day.

PATHWAY opens from the tomb,

The grave's a grave no more!

Stoop down; look into that sweet room;

Pass through the unsealed door;

Linger a moment by the bed

Where lay but yesterday the Church's Head.

What is there there to make thee fear?

A folded chamber vest,

Akin to that which thou shalt wear

When for thy slumber drest;

Two gentle angels sitting by

How sweet a room, methinks, wherein to lie!

No gloomy vault, no charnel cell,

No emblem of decay,

No solemn sound of passing bell,
To say, "He's gone away;"
But angel-whispers soft and clear,

And He, the risen Jesus, standing near.

"Why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou ?"

"Tis not the gardener's voice,

But His to whom all knees shall bow,

In whom all hearts rejoice;

The voice of Him who yesterday

Within that rock was Death's resistless prey.

'Why weepest thou? Whom seekest thou?

The living with the dead?"

Take young Spring flowers and deck thy brow,
For life with joy is wed!

The grave is now the grave no more;

Why fear to pass that bridal chamber door?

Take flowers and strew them all around

The room where Jesus lay!

But softly tread; 'tis hallowed ground,

And this is Easter day;

"The Lord is risen," as he said,

And thou shalt rise with him, thy risen Head.

Our Prayers.

RT Thou not weary of our selfish prayers,
Forever crying, "Help me! save me, Lord!"

We stay fenced in by petty fears and cares,

Nor hear the song outside, nor join its vast accord.

Is not the need of other souls our need?

After desire the helpful act must go,

As the strong wind bears on the winged seed

To some bare spot of earth, and leaves it there to grow.

Still are we saying, "Teach us how to pray:"

Oh, teach us how to love, and then our prayer

Through other lives will find its upward way,

As plants together seek and find sweet life and air.

Transfigured.

LMOST afraid they led' her in:

(A dwarf more piteous none could find) Withered as some weird leaf, and thin,

The woman was—and wan and blind.

Into his mirror with a smile

Not vain to be so fair, but glad-
The South-born painter looked the while,
With eyes than Christ's alone less sad.
"Mother of God," in pale surprise

He whispered, "What am I to paint ?"
A voice that sounded from the skies
Said to him: "Raphael, a saint."

She sat before him in the sun;

He scarce could look at her, and she Was still and silent. "It is done,"

He said, "Oh, call the world to see!"

Ah, that was she in veriest truth

Transcendent face and haloed hair; The beauty of divinest youth

Divinely beautiful was there.

Herself into her picture passed

Herself and not her poor disguise Made up of time and dust. At last One saw her with the Master's eyes.