Rather rejoice, for thou hast borne across
The Saviour of the world. Thou art forgiven
For all thy sins, and Offerus no more

Shalt thou be called, but Christopher. Now plant

Close by the stream thy pine-tree staff, so long Withered and lifeless. It shall put forth leaves, And bud and blossom; such shall be the sign."

The Christ-child vanished in a beaming light; But the old giant, folding each on each His massive hands, lifted his eyes and prayed: "My Master, Christ! I feel my end draws nigh,

My limbs are weak, my strength is gone, but thou

Hast washed me pure, my blessed Lord and God!"

So on the morrow from the pine-tree staff Burst leaves and flowers and fruit. The third day

Around that hut upon the sedgy bank,
Legions of angels stood with folded wings,
And holy, loving eyes. With songs of joy
They bore good Christopher away to meet
His Lord in Paradise.

Those patient souls Who, with no boast of famous words or deeds, Have sought no higher office than to aid With comfortable words and loving deeds Poor, weary pilgrims, find, as did this saint, They bore their Master, and their names shall shine

In golden letters in the Book of Life.

Will shield against the advancing gates of hell The Church of his elect

He loves so well.

JAMES HENRY LEIGH HUNT was born in London, Oct. 19, 1784, and, after an active literary life, died Aug. 28, 1859.

ABOU BEN ADHEM (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel, writing in a book of gold;
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?" The vision raised its
head,

And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the
Lord."

79

Some years ago a friend into my care
Some jewels gave; rich, precious gems they

were ;

But having given them in my charge, this friend
Did afterward nor come for them nor send,
But left them in my keeping for so long
That now it almost seems to me a wrong
That he should suddenly arrive to-day
To take those jewels which he left, away.
What think you? Shall I freely yield them
back,

And with no murmuring-so henceforth to lack

Those gems myself, which I had learned to see Almost as mine forever, mine in fee?"

When a lone pilgrim, with his scrip and burdon

Dropped by the wayside, weary and distressed, His sinking heart grown faithless of its guerdon,

The city of his recompense and rest.

No vision yet of Galilee and Tabor! No glimpse of distant Zion throned and crowned!

Behind him stretched his long and useless labor,

Before him lay the parched and stony ground.

Yet the same while it did put forth below Branches twice six, these too with fruit endued, Which, stretching to all quarters, might bestow Upon all nations medicine and food,

stood

A fountain of waters sweet and good;

The youth to the streamlet's brink drew near, Saying," Ambrose, thou maker of creeds, look here!"

Six vases of crystal then he took,

And set them along the edge of the brook.

"As into these vessels the water I pour,
There shall one hold less, another more,
And the water, unchanged, in every case
Shall put on the figure of the vase;

O thou who wouldst unity make through strife.
Canst thou fit this sign to the Water of Life?"

When Ambrose looked up, he stood alone, The youth and the stream and the vases were gone;

But he knew, by a sense of humbled grace,
He had talked with an angel face to face,
And felt his heart change inwardly,
As he fell on his knees beneath the tree.
JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE TREE OF LIFE.

THERE is a spot, of men believed to be
Earth's centre, and the place of Adam's grave;
And here a slip that from a barren tree
Was cut, fruit sweet and salutary gave,
Yet not unto the tillers of the land:
That blessed fruit was culled by other hand.

Sharers henceforth of immortality.

But when another fifty days were gone,
A breath divine, a mighty storm of heaven,
On all the branches swiftly lighted down,
To which a rich nectareous taste was given,
And all the heavy leaves that on them grew
Distilled henceforth a sweet and heavenly dew.

Beneath that tree's great shadow on the plain
A fountain bubbled up, whose lymph serene
Nothing of earthly mixture might distain :
Fountain so pure not anywhere was seen
In all the world, nor on whose marge the
earth

Put flowers of such unfading beauty forth.

And thither did all people, young and old, Matrons and virgins, rich and poor, a crowd Stream ever, who, whenas they did behold Those branches with their golden burden bowed,

Stretched forth their hands, and eager glances threw

Toward the fruit distilling that sweet dew.

But touch they might not these, much less allay

Their hunger, howsoe'er they might desire,
Till the foul tokens of their former way
They had washed off, the dust and sordid mire,
And cleansed their bodies in that holy wave,
Able from every spot and stain to save.

But woe, alas! Some, daring to draw near
That sacred stream, did presently retire,
Drew wholly back again, and did not fear
To stain themselves in all their former mire,
That fruit rejecting from their mouths again,
Not any more their medicine, but their bane.

Oh happy they, who not withdrawing so, First in that fountain make them pure and fair,

And who from thence unto the branches go,

With power upon the fruitage hanging there:
Thence by the branches of the lofty tree
Ascend to heaven - the tree of life, oh, see!

Translated from an old Latin poem by
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.

Faith saw in spirit this, the while she sat
Mourning beside the floods of Babylon.

And when the eternal lightning flashed from heaven,

The tree asunder burst with jubilant tone.

To the dry trunk this grace from God was given,

The wood of passion should from thence be

won.

The blind world fashioned out of it the cross, And its salvation nailed with scorn thereon.

Then bore the tree of life ensanguined fruit, Which whoso tasteth, life shall be his loan.

Oh, look, oh, look, how grows the tree of life! By storms established more, not overthrown.

May the whole world beneath its shadow rest!
Half has its shelter there already won.

Translated from the German of RÜCKERT by
RICHARD CHENEVIX TRENCH.