O Holy Jesus, Prince of Peace and Saviour, To Thee we owe the peace that still prevails,

Stilling the rude wills of men's wild behavior,

And calming passion's fierce and stormy gales.

O Holy Ghost, the Lord and the Life-giver, Thine is the quickening power that gives increase;

From Thee have flowed, as from a pleasant river,

Our plenty, wealth, prosperity, and peace.

O Triune God, with heart and voice adoring, Praise we the goodness that doth crown our days;

Pray we, that Thou wilt hear us, still imploring

Thy love and favor, kept to ns always.

WILLIAM CROSWELL DOANE

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

O LITTLE town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie! Above thy deep and dreamless sleep The silent stars go by; Yet in thy dark streets shineth The everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years Are inet in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary,
And, gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love.
O morning stars, together
Proclaim the holy birth!
And praises sing to God the King,
And peace to men on earth.

How silently, how silently,

The wondrous gift is given ! So God imparts to human hearts The blessings of His heaven. No ear may hear His coming,

But in this world of sin,

Where meek souls will receive Him still, The dear Christ euters in.

O holy Child of Bethlehem!
Descend to us, we pray;
Cast out our sin, and enter in,
Be born in us to-day.
We hear the Christmas angels

The great glad tidings tell; Oh come to us, abide with us, Our Lord Emmanuel !

PHILLIPS BROOKS

IN GALILEE

ROMAN and Jew upon one level lie;
Great Herod's palaces are ground to dust;
Upon the synagogues are mould and rust;
Night winds among the tottering columns
sigh;

Yet sparrows through the massive ruins fly,

And o'er the sacred earth's embroidered crust

Still goes the sower forth to sow, still must The shepherd with his sheep sit listlessly. There towers the mountain where the Teacher spake

In those old times the sweet Beatitudes, Surviving kings and codes, fair words and feuds.

There creeps the Jordan to its destined lake,

The fisher casts his net into the sea,
And still the lilies bloom in Galilee.
MARY FRANCES BUTTS1

REINCARNATION

Ir cannot be that He who made
This wondrous world for our delight,
Designed that all its charms should fade
And pass forever from our sight;
That all shall wither and decay,

And know on earth no life but this,
With only one finite survey

Of all its beauty and its bliss.

It cannot be that all the years

Of toil and care and grief we live Shall find no recompense but tears,

No sweet return that earth can give;
That all that leads us to aspire,

And struggle onward to achieve,
And every unattained desire
Were given only to deceive.

It cannot be that, after all

The mighty conquests of the mind, Our thoughts shall pass beyond recall And leave no record here behind; That all our dreams of love and fame, And hopes that time has swept away,— All that enthralled this mortal frame, Shall not return some other day.

It cannot be that all the ties

Of kindred souls and loving hearts Are broken when this body dies, And the immortal mind departs; That no serener light shall break At last upon our mortal eyes, To guide us as our footsteps make The pilgrimage to Paradise.

DAVID BANKS SICKELS

ROLL OUT, O SONG

ROLL out, O song to God!
Move on, ye throngs of men!
Chances and changes come and go:
God changeth not ! Amen.

And on the throngs of men,
On worrying care and strife,

Sinks down, as if from angel tongues,
The word of hope and life.

Down in the darksome ways
And worrying whirl of life
Sinks, like a strain of vesper-song,
The thought of his great strife

So I go on not knowing, I would not if I might;

I would rather walk in the dark with God than go alone in the light;

My heart shrinks back from trials which the future may disclose,

Yet I never had sorrow but what the dear Lord chose;

So I send the coming tears back with the whispered word, "He knows."

MARY GARDINER BRAINARD

TO ST. MARY MAGDALEN MID the white spouses of the Sacred Heart, After its queen, the nearest, dearest thou:

And when thy hair is all it will allow
Of glory to thy head, we do not start.
O more than virgin in thy penitent love!
And more than martyr in thy passionate
woe!

Who knelt not with thee on the gory sod, How should they now sit throned with thee above?

Or where the crown our worship could be stow

Like that long gold which wiped the feet of God?

BENJAMIN DIONYSIUS HIL (Father Edmund, of the Heart of Mary, C. P.)

Oh! could the faith of childhood's days,
Oh! could its little hymns of praise,
Oh! could its simple, joyous trust
Be recreated from the dust
That lies around a wasted life,
The fruit of many a bitter strife!
Oh! then at night in prayer I'd bend,
And call my God, my Father, Friend,
And pray with childlike faith once more
The prayer my mother taught of yore,
"Now I lay me down to sleep:
I pray the Lord my soul to keep."

EUGENE ENRY PULLEN

ONE SATURDAY

I NEVER had a happier time,
And I am forty-three,

Than one midsummer afternoon,
When it was May with me:
Life's fragrant May,

And Saturday,

And you came out with me to play;
And up and down the garden walks,
Among the flowering beans,

We proudly walked and tossed our heads
And played that we were queens.

Thrice prudent sovereigus, we made
The diadems we wore,

And fashioned for our royal hands
The sceptres which they bore;
But good Queen Bess

Had surely less

Than we, of proud self-consciousness, While wreaths of honeysuckle hung

Around your rosy neck,

And tufts of marigold looped up
My gown, a "gingham check."

Our chosen land was parted out,
Like Israel's, by lot;

My kingdom, from the garden wall
Reached to the strawberry plot;