Whence that three-cornered smile of

bliss?

Three angels gave me at once a kiss.

Where did you get this pearly ear?

God spoke, and it came out to hear.

Where did you get those arms and hands?

Love made itself into bonds and bands.

Feet, whence did you come, you darling things?

From the same box as the cherub's wings.

How did they all just come to be you?
God thought about me, and so I grew.

But how did you come to us, dear? God thought about you, and so I am

here.

-George MacDonald.

O LITTLE TOWN OF

BETHLEHEM

LITTLE town of Bethle

hem,

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 met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary,
And, gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wandering 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 enters 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.

I

IO VICTIS

SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,

The hymn of the wounded, the beaten, who died

overwhelmed in the strife;

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart,

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,

With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its pæan for those who

have won;

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant and high to the breeze and the

sun,

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet

Thronging after the laurel-crowned vic

tors, I stand on the field of defeat, In the shadow, with those who have fallen, the wounded and dying, and there

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper: "They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;

Who have dared for a high cause to

suffer, resist, fight,-if need be, to die."