SELF-DENIAL.

It were a lover's dream,

To shew in hardihood,

What on his secret thoughts doth gleam, Sweetly in solitude.

The darker grows the din,

And dangers round her set,

The brighter burns the gem within
Ambition's coronet.

Were our love but the same,

To joy in sacrifice,

We like an angel on the flame a
Might mount unto the skies.

Counting our life for loss,

Would we but love our rod,

And render up each hourly cross,
Unto our King and God.

Low is the door of prayer,

But found in chastening Lent,

That spell which holds with chains so rare The o'erhanging firmament.

Our God hath built His throne

In secret, ever nigh,

And they who self disrobe alone

His Presence can descry.

CHRISTMAS.

Where is the cradle meet

For the Eternal Child?

It is within that sacred seat,
The lowly heart with sorrow reconciled.

We ask no vernal bud,

Nor summer flow'ret wild,

Stern winter 'neath her rugged hood Hath seen her Lord, and patiently hath smiled.

Christmas, when all things wear

The glare of earthly glee,

Not gladliest then the heart doth hear The chime of thy sweet calm festivity.

But when life's joys have gone,

With sere and yellow leaf,

The winter of the mind doth own

Balm of all wounds, Creation's blest relief.

THE PENITENT.

There was one sold his patrimony
A dear-bought dower,

That had come down from high
In a golden shower,

It was a loss that gold could never mend
The heart-blood of a Friend.

From out the world's dark den he came aside
A monster for the sun to see,

All hideous soil'd with foulest leprosy,
And he sat down upon the grass, and cried,

"Is there no fountain that can wash again, Has earth or Heav'n no spell,

Is there no talisman, no golden chain,
Can lift me up with life to dwell?"

There is a tree a lonesome vale doth fence,
That vale is penitence,

That tree 'tis said is daily dropping blood,
More holy than Archangel's food.

There is a fount where holy men do say,
He that doth look for aye,

He shall become like that he doth behold,

Borrowing a light more pure than gold. There is a glass whereon he that doth bend, Shall see pourtrayed the Heav'n,

Till he forget what earth hath best to lend, In the sweet hope that he may be forgiven.