He felt anew the cares which round him hovered
When his high pinnacle of fame was won;
He felt the conscience-pangs he oft had smothered
When some most foul and cruel act was done;
He dreamed of plots which 'gainst him were directed
By patriot souls, who sought their land to free;
He gave to death those daring few detected,
The block for prize, and heaven for liberty;
He saw again his royal offspring falling,

Struck by the vengeance of the mighty hand;
He heard his subjects' bitter whispers, calling
For freedom for their poor, down-trodden land.

But ah! without the gate, the beggar, sleeping,
Saw visions seldom seen by mortal eye;
For o'er his tired soul came glimpses creeping
Of glories which shall never fade or die.
He heard the heavenly choirs their anthems raising
In tuneful cadences and strains sublime;
He heard the voice of countless millions praising,
Whose song shall echo to the end of time;
Beside the stream of life he walked, surrounded
By angels, in pure robes and crowns of gold;
And all the starry courts the while resounded
With melody from golden harps untold.
Forgotten all his pain, his care, his anguish
His dreary pilgrimage forgotten now;
No longer did his soul in sorrow languish,
Nor sweat of agony roll down his brow;
He walked no more the earth, with tears and sighing,
But trod the courts above, in light arrayed;
And answered now was all his piteous crying:

He heard the voice of Love" Be not afraid "

So passed the afternoon-the sun descended

'Mid golden clouds and purple, hazy smoke, That with the far-off, faint-lined hills was blended, And courtiers, beggar, and the king awoke. One woke to toil and care-his dream had taught him Sleep was no blessing, though it closed his eyes; The beggar awoke-his golden dream had brought him Blessings and rest-he awoke in Paradise!

J. C. GOODWIN.

THERE

A TRUE HEART.

HERE is something pathetic in the life of every man confined within prison walls, and this pathos grows more intense when all the free outside world is glad with the joy that comes in the Christmas time.

Remorse must weigh heavily on convicts at this time. Forgetfulness of all the past would be a blessed boon to many of them, but memory is keenest then, and we do not know with what heartaches they recall the time when they too were free and happy.

The warden of a State prison tells the following pathetic incident of a life convict:

"I was passing out of the prison-yard one bitterly cold Christmas morning.

"Just outside the gate, and crouching close to the high stone wall, I saw a thinly-clad little girl of about twelve years, her face and hands blue with cold. She put out one of her thin hands to detain me as I passed.

"If you please, sir,' she said, and stopped, fingering

nervously at the fringe of her old shawl and glancing timidly down.

"What is it?' I asked.

'Well, if you please, sir, I'd like to know if I can go inside, and see my-my father? He's in there, and I've brung him something for Christmas. It aint much, and I didn't s'pose you'd mind any if he had it. His name is Mister John H―y.'

"I recognized the name as that of a life convict, a man notoriously bad. I went back into the prisongrounds, the child following me eagerly.

Going to my office, I sent for the convict. He came, sullen and dejected; in his face was the look of utter hopelessness the faces of prisoners for life so often wear. "The child sprang forward to meet him, the hot tears streaming over her white face.

"He stepped back, sullen and seemingly angry. No word of welcome came from his lips for the ragged, trembling little creature who stood crying before him with something clasped close in her hand.

"I-I-came to say "Merry Christmas," father,' she faltered. 'I-I-thought maybe you'd be glad to Aint you any glad, father?'

see me.

"Christmas! Christ! What would that man not have given for freedom of body and soul!

66

'The convict's head drooped. The hard look was going out of his face, his eyes were moistening. His little girl went on, tremblingly and tearfully—

"And I-I-brung you something, father. It was all I could think of, and all I could get. I live to the poor-house now.'

"Her trembling fingers began unwrapping the bit of

soft white paper in her hand, and she held out a short, shining curl of yellow hair carefully tied with a bit of old ribbon.

father.

"I wouldn't give this to anybody on earth but you, You used to really and truly love little Johnnie; mother said you did; and so '—

"The man fell to his knees with both hands clasped over his face.

"I did love him,' he said, hoarsely. I love him still; bad as I am, I love him still.'

"I knew it,' said the child, going closer, and I knowed you'd like this, now that Johnnie's dead.'

"Dead!' cried the man, rocking to and fro, still on his knees with his hands over his face. 'My little boy!'

"Yes,' said the child, he died in the poor-house only last week, and there's no one left but me, now; but I aint goin' to forgit you, father. I'm going to stick right by you, spite of what folks say, and some day maybe I can get you out of here; I'm going to try. I don't never forgit that you are my father, and so

"He put out one arm, drew the child toward him and kissed her again and again. I silently left the room, and they were alone together for half an hour. Then the child came out, smiling through her tears.

"Mind,' she said, before closing the door, 'I'll never forgit you, father, never.""

It was the voice of a true heart. May Christ give it the benediction of His peace!

THE YOUTH'S COMPANION.

A

ALONE WITH GOD.

LONE with Thee, my God! alone with Thee! Thus wouldst Thou have it still-thus let it be, There is a secret chamber in each mind,

Which none can find

But Him who made it-none beside can know
Its joy or woe.

Oft may I enter it oppressed with care,
And find Thee there;

So full of watchful love, Thou know'st the why
Of every sigh.

Then all Thy righteous dealing shall I see,
Alone with Thee, my God! alone with Thee!

The joys of earth are like a summer's day,
Fading away;

But in the twilight we may better trace
Thy wondrous grace.

The homes of earth are emptied oft by death
With chilling breath ;

The loved departed guest may ope no more
The well-known door;

Still in that chamber sealed, Thou'lt dwell with me,
And I with Thee, my God! alone with Thee!

The world's false voice would bid me enter not
That hallowed spot;

And earthly thoughts would follow on the track
To hold me back;

Or seek to break the secret peace within
With this world's din.