------- NO man or woman living now Shall e’er again behold A Christmas day so royal clad, In robes of purpled gold, As yesterday sank down to rest, In perfect, rounded triumph in the West. A winter day it was—yet shot With sunshine to the core— Enchantment’s spell filled all the scene With power unknown before— And he who walked abroad could feel Its subtle mast’ry o’er him softly steal. Its beauty prodigal he saw— He breathed elixir pure— Twas bliss to strive with reaching hand Its rapture to secure, And bathe with open fingers where The waves of warmth and freshness pulsed the air. The hum of bees but underrode The whistling wings outspread Of wild geese, flying through the sky, As Southwardly they sped— While embered pale, in drowsy grates, The fires slept lightly, as when life abates. And people, marveling, out of doors, Watched in sweet amaze The soft winds’ wooing of delight, Upon this day of days— Their wooing of the roses fair— Their kissing lilies, with a lover’s air. God’s benediction, with the day, Slow dropping from the skies, Came down the waiting earth to bless, And give it glad surprise— His smile, its light—a radiant flood, That upward bore the prayer of gratitude. And through and through its stillness all— And through its beauty too— To every heart came mute appeal, To live a life more true— And every soul invoking then, With promise—“Peace on earth—good will to men.” N.C. THOMPSON. ------------------------------------------------------------------------ IN MEMORY OF HENRY W. GRADY. ------- SHALL we not mourn for those who pass Like meteors from the midnight sky, From out the gleaming heights of fame, As those who for their country die? Who die, and sleep in dreamless slumber, Where sunbeams like a blessing shed Their glories, and the rain-drops, falling, Weep ever o’er our Southern dead. Of silvery tongue, and heart of fire, And grace of manhood, what is left? A voiceless grief—a tear—a sigh, A nation of her son bereft.