And he gathers the prayers as he stands, And they change into flowers in his hands, Into garlands of purple and red; And beneath the great arch of the portal, Through the streets of the City Immortal Is wafted the fragrance they shed.

It is but a legend, I know,-- A fable, a phantom, a show, Of the ancient Rabbinical lore; Yet the old mediaeval tradition, The beautiful, strange superst.i.tion, But haunts me and holds me the more.

When I look from my window at night, And the welkin above is all white, All throbbing and panting with stars, Among them majestic is standing Sandalphon, the angel, expanding His pinions in nebulous bars.

And the legend, I feel, is a part Of the hunger and thirst of the heart, The frenzy and fire of the brain, That grasps at the fruitage forbidden, The golden pomegranates of Eden, To quiet its fever and pain.

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

[Ill.u.s.tration: JOHN MILTON.]

HYMN.

ON THE MORNING OF CHRIST'S NATIVITY.

It was the winter wild While the heaven-born child All meanly wrapped in the rude manger lies; Nature in awe to him Has doffed her gaudy trim, With her great Master so to sympathize:

No war, or battle's sound Was heard the world around; The idle spear and shield were high up hung; The hooked chariot stood Unstained with hostile blood; The trumpet spake not to the armed throng; And kings sat still with awful eye, As if they surely knew their sovran Lord was by.

But peaceful was the night Wherein the Prince of Light His reign of peace upon the earth began; The winds with wonder whist, Smoothly the waters kissed Whispering new joys to the mild ocean-- Who now hath quite forgot to rave, While birds of calm sit brooding on the charmed wave.

The stars with deep amaze, Stand fixed in steadfast gaze, Bending one way their precious influence; And will not take their flight For all the morning light, Or Lucifer that often warned them thence; But in their glimmering orbs did glow Until their Lord himself bespake, and bid them go.

Yea, Truth and Justice then Will down return to men, Orbed in a rainbow; and, like glories wearing, Mercy will sit between Throned in celestial sheen, With radiant feet the tissued clouds down steering And Heaven, as at some festival Will open wide the gates of her high palace hall.

[Ill.u.s.tration: HOLY NIGHT.

H. GRa.s.s.]

But wisest Fate says no; This must not yet be so; The Babe yet lies in smiling infancy That on the bitter cross Must redeem our loss; So both himself and us to glorify; Yet first, to those ychained in sleep, The wakeful trump of doom must thunder through the deep.

But see, the Virgin blest Hath laid her Babe to rest; Time is, our tedious song should here have ending; Heaven's youngest-teemed star Hath fixed her polished car, Her sleeping Lord with handmaid lamp attending: And all about the courtly stable Bright-harnessed angels sit in order serviceable.

JOHN MILTON.

_A Selection._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

THE NEW YEAR.

Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the night; Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow; The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, For those that here we see no more; Ring out the feud of rich and poor, Ring in redress to all mankind.

Ring out a slowly dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the n.o.bler modes of life, With sweeter manners, purer laws.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out, ring out, my mournful rhymes, But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring in the love of truth and right, Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out old shapes of foul disease; Ring out the narrowing l.u.s.t of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land, Ring in the Christ that is to be.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

[Ill.u.s.tration]

_RECOMMENDED POEMS._

As it has been impossible to include in this collection as many poems by American authors as we desired, we recommend the following, all of which are published by Houghton, Mifflin & Co., with the exception of Bryant's poems, which are published by D. Appleton & Co.

ALDRICH, THOMAS BAILEY.

After the Rain.

Barberries.

Before the Rain.

The Bluebells of New England.

BRYANT, WILLIAM CULLEN.

A Northern Legend.

The Gladness of Nature.

CARY, ALICE.

The Gray Swan.

EMERSON, RALPH WALDO.

The Humblebee.

HARTE, BRET.

The Reveille.

HOLMES, OLIVER WENDELL.

A Sunday Hymn.