FATHER IS COMING. THE clock is on the stroke of six, Sweep up the hearth and mend the fire, And put the kettle on: The wild night-wind is blowing cold, 'Tis dreary crossing o'er the wold. He is crossing o'er the wold apace, For father's heart is stout and true He makes all toil, all hardship, light: Would all men were the same! Folks need not be unkind, austere; Nay, do not close the shutters, child; For far along the lane I've heard him say he loves to mark The cheerful firelight through the dark. And we'll do all that father likes; His wishes are so few: Would they were more! that every hour I'm sure it makes a happy day, I know he's coming by this sign, See how he laughs and crows and stares He's father's self in face and limb, Hark! hark! I hear his footsteps now; And do not let him wait. Shout, baby, shout! and clap thy hands, For father on the threshold stands. MARY HOWITT. THE CHILD'S PRAYER. THE little girl is wearied with play; And she welcomes the vesper hour: With sunshine and gladness the day has been blest, And now, like the dove, she returns to her nest. With tender love her frock is untied, "Our Father," she says, "I am tired to-night; The child is asleep in her own little bed, And the angel of peace keeps its watch o'er her head. STAR CHILD. In a pleasant chamber, close beside Stood a little bed, in whose bosom deep And the radiance of the clear star-light And all the night, as one by one, The shining stars went up the sky, They paused, and looked through that window high; And as each and every star in turn, Like a crown of silver lustre shone, Round the head of the boy, more still and deep, More starry and bright, grew his innocent sleep. One night he awoke, and one star alone. Through that lofty casement was shining down : He gazed and he gazed, till it grew like an eye, Placid and clear, in the midnight sky; Then the boy looked trustfully up and smiled, And the star looked brightly back to the child. The morrow he went to his pictures and play; STUDIES IN RELIGION. |