In the midst of the mystical splendor, Stood a beautiful, beautiful child-- A golden-haired, azure-eyed child. With a look that was touching and tender, She stretched out her white hand and smiled: “Ay, welcome, thrice welcome, poor mortals, O, why do ye linger and wait? Come fearlessly in at these portals-- No warder keeps watch at the gate!” “_Gloria Deo! Te Deum laudamus!_” Exclaimed the proud prelate, “I’m safe into Heaven; Through the blood of the Lamb, and the martyrs who claim us, My soul has been purchased, my sins are forgiven! I tread where the saints and the martyrs have trod-- Lead on, thou fair child, to the temple of God!” The child stood in silence and wonder, Then bowed down her beautiful head, And even as fragrance is shed From the lily the waves have swept under, She meekly and tenderly said-- So simply and truthfully said: “In vain do ye seek to behold Him; He dwells in no temple apart; The height of the Heavens cannot hold him, And yet he is here in my heart-- He is here, and he will not depart.” Then out from the mystical splendor, The swift-changing, crystalline light, The rainbow-hued, scintillant light, Gleamed faces more touching and tender Than ever had greeted our sight-- Our sin-blinded, death-darkened sight; And they sang: “Welcome home to the Kingdom, Ye earth-born and serpent-beguiled; The Lord is the light of this Kingdom, And His temple the heart of a child-- Of a trustful and teachable child, Ye are born to the life of the Kingdom-- Receive, and believe, as a child.” THE CRADLE OR COFFIN. [Given under the inspiration of Poe.] The Cradle or Coffin, the robe or the shroud, Of which shall a mortal most truly be proud? The cradle rocks light as a boat on the billow, The child lies asleep on his soft, downy pillow, And the mother sits near with her love-lighted eyes,-- Sits watching her treasure, and dreamily singing, While the cradle keeps time, like a pendulum swinging, And notes every moment of bliss as it flies. Lullaby baby--watch o’er his rest! The dear little fledgling asleep in his nest. How blest is that slumber--how calm he reposes, With his sweet, pouting lips, and his cheeks flushed with roses! O, God of the Innocent, would it might last! But know, thou fond mother, beyond thy perceiving, The Parcæ are near him, and steadily weaving The meshes of Fate which around him they cast!