My Shepherd is the Lord my God,-- There is no want I know; His flock He leads in verdant meads, Where tranquil waters flow. He doth restore my fainting soul With His divine caress, And, when I stray, He points the way To paths of righteousness. Yea, though I walk the vale of death, What evil shall I fear? Thy staff and rod are mine, O God, And Thou, my Shepherd, near! Mine enemies behold the feast Which my dear Lord hath spread; And, lo! my cup He filleth up, With oil anoints my head! Goodness and mercy shall be mine Unto my dying day; Then will I bide at His dear side Forever and for aye! THE BIBLIOMANIAC'S BRIDE The women-folk are like to books,-- Most pleasing to the eye, Whereon if anybody looks He feels disposed to buy. I hear that many are for sale,-- Those that record no dates, And such editions as regale The view with colored plates. Of every quality and grade And size they may be found,-- Quite often beautifully made, As often poorly bound. Now, as for me, had I my choice, I'd choose no folio tall, But some octavo to rejoice My sight and heart withal,-- As plump and pudgy as a snipe; Well worth her weight in gold; Of honest, clean, conspicuous type, And _just_ the size to hold! With such a volume for my wife How should I keep and con! How like a dream should run my life Unto its colophon! Her frontispiece should be more fair Than any colored plate; Blooming with health, she would not care To extra-illustrate. And in her pages there should be A wealth of prose and verse, With now and then a _jeu d'esprit_,-- But nothing ever worse! Prose for me when I wished for prose, Verse when to verse inclined,-- Forever bringing sweet repose To body, heart, and mind. Oh, I should bind this priceless prize In bindings full and fine, And keep her where no human eyes Should see her charms, but mine! With such a fair unique as this What happiness abounds! Who--who could paint my rapturous bliss, My joy unknown to Lowndes! CHRISTMAS HYMN Sing, Christmas bells! Say to the earth this is the morn Whereon our Saviour-King is born; Sing to all men,--the bond, the free, The rich, the poor, the high, the low, The little child that sports in glee, The aged folk that tottering go,-- Proclaim the morn That Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me! Sing, angel host! Sing of the star that God has placed Above the manger in the east; Sing of the glories of the night, The virgin's sweet humility, The Babe with kingly robes bedight, Sing to all men where'er they be This Christmas morn; For Christ is born, That saveth them and saveth me!