And when they opened the letter,
They stood almost dismayed
That such a little child should dare
To ask the Lord for aid.

Then the Burgomaster stammered,
And scarce knew what to speak,
And hastily he brushed aside

A drop, like a tear, from his cheek.

Then up he spoke right gruffly,
And turned himself about :
This must be a very foolish boy,
And a small one, too, no doubt."

But when six rosy children

That night about him pressed,

Poor, trusting little Gottlieb

Stood near him with the rest.

And he heard his simple, touching prayer,
Through all their noisy play;
Though he tried his very best to put
The thought of him away.

A wise and learned man was he,
Men called him good and just;

But his wisdom seemed like foolishness,
By that weak child's simple trust.

Now when the morn of Christmas came
And the long, long week was done,
Poor Gottlieb, who scarce could sleep,
Rose up before the sun,

And hastened to his mother,

But he scarce might speak for fear, When he saw her wondering look, and saw The Burgomaster near.

He was n't afraid of the Holy Babe,

Nor his mother, meek and mild;

But he felt as if so great a man

Had never been a child.

Amazed the poor child looked, to find

The hearth was piled with wood, And the table, never full before, Was heaped with dainty food.

Then half to hide from himself the truth,

The Burgomaster said,

While the mother blessed him on her knees, And Gottlieb shook for dread :

"Nay, give no thanks, my good dame,

To such as me for aid;

Be grateful to your little son,

And the Lord to whom he prayed !"

Then, turning round to Gottlieb :

Your written prayer, you see, Came not to whom it was addressed, It only came to me!

"T was but a foolish thing you did,
As you must understand;

For though the gifts are yours, you know,
You have them from my hand."

Then Gottlieb answered fearlessly,
Where he humbly stood apart :

But the Christ-child sent them all the same, He put the thought in your heart!"

Caroline A. Mason.

1823-1890.

WAKING.

I have done, at length, with dreaming;
Henceforth, O thou soul of mine,
Thou must take up sword and gauntlet,
Waging warfare most divine.
Life is struggle, combat, victory-
Wherefore have I slumbered on
With my forces all unmarshalled,
With my weapons all undrawn?
Oh, how many a glorious record
Had the angels of me kept,
Had I done instead of doubted,
Had I warred instead of wept !

But, begone! regret, bewailing,
Ye but weaken at the best ;
I have tried the trusty weapons
Resting erst within my breast;
I have wakened to my duty,

To a knowledge strong and deep,
That I dreamed not of aforetime,
In my long, inglorious sleep;
For to live is something awful,
And I knew it not before;
And I dreamed not how stupendous
Was the secret that I bore-
The great, deep, mysterious secret
Of a life to be wrought out
Into warm, heroic action,

Weakened not by fear or doubt.
In this subtle sense of living,
Newly stirred in every vein,

I can feel a throb electric,
Pleasure half-allied to pain.
'T is so great-and yet so awful—
So bewildering, yet so brave,
To be a king in every conflict,
When before I crouched a slave ;
'T is so glorious to be conscious
Of a growing power within,
Stronger than the rallying forces
Of a charged and marshalled sin ;
Never in those old romances,
Felt I half the sense of life,

That I feel within me stirring,

Standing in the place of strife.
Oh, those olden days of dalliance,
When I wantoned with my fate,
When I trifled with a knowledge

That has wellnigh come too late;
Yet, my soul, look not behind thee,
Thou hast work to do at last;
Let the brave toil of the Present
Overarch the crumbling Past;
Build thy great acts high, and higher,
Build them on the conquered sod
Where thy weakness first fell bleeding,
And thy first prayer rose to God.

Thomas Wentworth bigginson.

1823.

VESTIS ANGELICA.

[It was a custom of the early English Church for pious laymen to be carried in the hour of death to some monastery, that they might be clothed in the habit of the religious order and might die amid the prayers of the brotherhood. The garment thus assumed was known as the Vestis Angelica.-See Moroni: "Dizionario di Erudizione Storico-Ecclesiastica," ii., 78; xcvi., 212.]

O gather, gather! Stand
Round her on either hand!
Ye shining angel-band

More pure than priest;