And he stands without, and waits to see
Whether within he will welcome be;
And still keeps knocking, in hopes to win
The welcome answer, "Come in, come in!"

So knocks thy heart now day by day;
And when its knocks have died away,
And all its knockings on earth are o'er,
It will knock itself at Heaven's door,
And stand without, and wait to see
Whether within it will welcome bé,

And to hear Him say, "Come, dearest guest,
I found in thy bosom a holy rest:

As thou hast done, be it done to thee;

Come into the joys of Eternity!"

FROM THE German.

A CHRISTMAS CAROL.

ALL in the time of winter,

When the fields were white with snow,

A babe was born in Bethlehem,

A long time ago.

Oh, what a thing was that, good folks,

That the Lord whom we do know

Should have been a babe for all our sakes,

To take away our woe!

Not in a golden castle

Was this sweet babe y-born;

But only in a stable,

With cattle and with corn:

But forth a-field the angels

Were singing in the air;

And, when the shepherds heard the news,
To that child they did repair.

The wise men, also, from the East

Were guided by a star :

Oh! I wonder often, at this day,

Where those good wise men are.

MACMILLAN'S MAGAZINE.

WORDS TO THE DREAMER.

"Man is no star, but a quick coal

Of mortal fire.

Who blows it not, nor doth control

A faint desire,

Lets his own ashes choke his soul."

GEORGE Herbert.

UP, dreamer, from thy reverie !

Up, dreamer, and away!

Sit not with folded hands so long
From morn till closing day.

The sun is ever turning round,
He scorneth to be still, -

The trees shoot upward from the ground,
And ever runs the rill.

Winds ever blow, clouds ever move,

And ever stir the leaves,

And the glad sea eternally
Its solemn grandeur heaves.

The stars are moving every one
Onward in paths of light,

Ever

you

hear the ceaseless hum

Of Nature, morn and night.

Up, dreamer, from thy reverie!

The warrior's blade is dim That idly rests within its sheath, No laurels bloom for him.

The bended bow that hangs too long

Upon the castle wall

Unstrained by stalwart arm, when strung,
Snaps faithless to the call.

That tome of olden minstrelsie,
Dust-covered on thy shelf,

When opened, -lo! the worm hath gnawed
Each tale of fay and elf.

The lute neglected, when at last

You strike the shattered string,
Wails forth such jangling melody,
That tear-drops gladly spring.

Up, dreamer, from thy reverie ! —
There's work for thee to do;

Time's seed-field, white with ripened grain,

Lies open to thy view.

Take down thy sickle from the wall,

And bare thy arm for toil,

Strike in, and do not leave a straw

Of all the generous spoil.

Heap up, heap up the creaking wain
Ere blighting mildews fall,

And winnow well the golden grain,
Then safely store it all.

And thou shalt know how sweet is toil,
And glad thy heart shall be

When thou shalt gaze on thy rich store,
Seed for Eternity.

C. G. FENNER.

THE BEGGAR-MAN.

ABJECT, stooping, old, and wan,

See yon wretched beggar-man;

Once a father's hopeful heir,
Once a mother's tender care.
When too young to understand,
He but scorch'd his little hand
By the candle's flaming light
Attracted, dancing, spiral, bright;
Clasping fond her darling round,
A thousand kisses heal'd the wound:
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
No mother tends the beggar-man.

Then nought too good for him to wear,
With cherub face and flaxen hair,
In fancy's choicest gauds arrayed,
Cap of lace with rose to aid;

Milk-white hat and feather blue;
Shoes of red; and coral too;
With silver bells to please his ear,
And charm the frequent ready tear.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Neglected is the beggar-man.

See the boy advance in age,

And Learning spreads her useful page;
In vain — for giddy Pleasure calls,
And shows the marbles, tops, and balls.
What's learning to the charms of play?
Th' indulgent tutor must give way.
A heedless, wilful dunce, and wild,
The parents' fondness spoiled the child;
The youth in vagrant courses ran.
Now abject, stooping, old, and wan,
Their fondling is the beggar-man.

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB.

DO GOOD.

AH, child! the stream that brings

To thirsty lips their drink

Is seldom drain'd; for springs

Pour water to its brink.

The wellsprings that supply

The streams are seldom spent,

For clouds of rain come by

To pay them what they lent.