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THE ANGEL'S STORY.

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All the skill of the great City

To save that little life was vain; That little thread from being broken,

That fatal word from being spoken ; Nay, his very mother's pain,

And the mighty love within her Could not give him health again.

So she knelt there still beside him,

She alone with strength to smile,
And to promise he should suffer

No more in a little while ;
And with murmured song and story

The long weary hours beguile.

Suddenly an unseen Presence

Checked those constant moaning cries, Stilled the little heart's quick fluttering,

Raised those blue and wondering eyes, Fixed on some mysterious vision,

With a startled sweet surprise.

For a radiant angel hovered

Smiling o'er the little bed ;
White his raiment, from his shoulders

Snowy dove-like pinions spread,
And a starlike light was shining

In a Glory round his head.

.

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THE CYCLE OF LIFE.

While, with tender love, the angel,

Leaning o'er the little nest,
In his arms the sick child folding,

Laid him gently on his breast,
Sobs and wailings told the mother

That her darling was at rest.

So the angel, slowly rising,

Spreads his wings; and through the air
Bore the smiling child, and held him

On his heart with loving care:
A red branch of blooming roses

Placing softly by him there.

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THE ANGEL'S STORY.

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Once, in that great town below us,

In a poor, a narrow street,
Dwelt a little sickly Orphan;

Gentle aid, or pity sweet,
Never in life's rugged pathway

Guided his poor tottering feet.

“ All the striving anxious forethought,

That should only come with age,
Weighed upon his baby spirit,

Showed him soon life's sternest page;
Grim Want was his nurse, and Sorrow

Was his only heritage!

“ All too weak for childish pastimes,

Drearily the hours sped ;
On his hands so small and trembling,

Leaning his poor aching head,
Or through dark and painful hours,

Lying sleepless on his bed.

“ Dreaming strange and longing fancies

Of cool forests far away;
And of rosy, happy children,

Laughing merrily at play,
Coming home through green lanes, bearing

Trailing branches of white May.

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THE CYCLE OF LIFE.

Scarce a glimpse of the blue heavens

Gleamed above that narrow street,
And the sultry air of Summer

(That you call so warm and sweet) Fevered the poor Orphan, dwelling

In the crowded alley's heat.

“ One bright day, with feeble footsteps

Slowly forth he dared to crawl,
Through the crowded city's pathways,

Till he reached a garden wall :
Where 'mid princely halls and mansions

Stood the lordliest of all.

“ There were trees with giant branches,

Velvet glades where shadows hide;
There were sparkling fountains glancing,

Flowers whose rich luxuriant pride
Wafted even a breath of perfume

To the child who stood outside.

“ He against the gate of iron

Pressed his wan and wistful face,
Gazing with an awe-struck pleasure

At the glories of the place;
Never had his brightest day-dream

Shone with half such wondrous grace. THE ANGEL'S STORY.

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“ You were playing in that garden,

Throwing blossoms in the air,
And laughing when the petals floated

Downwards on your golden hair;
And the fond eyes watching o'er you,

And the splendour spread before you, Told a house's hope was there.

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But that look of childish sorrow

On your tender child-heart fell, And you plucked the reddest roses

From the tree you loved so well, Passing them through the stern grating,

With the gentle word, Farewell!'

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