Bright tho' the heavens were, Rich tho' the flowers there, Sweet tho' the fragrant air, And all as Eden fair, Yet as a dweller there, I would not be! O wave, and breeze, and rill, and rock, and wood, Was it not God Himself that called you GOOD? --_Horatius Bonar._ "Servant of God, well done, Rest from thy loved employ; The battle fought, the vict'ry won, Enter thy Master's joy." The voice at midnight came, He started up to hear; A mortal arrow pierced his frame, He fell--but felt no fear. Tranquil amidst alarms, It found him on the field, A veteran slumbering on his arms, Beneath his red-cross shield. The pains of death are past, Labor and sorrow cease; And, life's long warfare closed at last, His soul is found in peace. Soldier of Christ, well done! Praise be thy new employ; And while eternal ages run, Rest in thy Saviour's joy. --_James Montgomery._ THE ANGEL'S STORY. Through the blue and frosty heavens Christmas stars were shining bright; Glistening lamps throughout the City Almost matched their gleaming light; While the winter snow was lying, And the winter winds were sighing, Long ago, one Christmas night. While, from every tower and steeple, Pealing bells were sounding clear, (Never with such tones of gladness, Save when Christmas time is near,) Many a one that night was merry Who had toiled through all the year. That night saw old wrongs forgiven, Friends, long parted, reconciled; Voices all unused to laughter, Mournful eyes that rarely smiled, Trembling hearts that feared the morrow, From their anxious thoughts beguiled. Rich and poor felt love and blessing From the gracious season fall; Joy and plenty in the cottage, Peace and feasting in the hall; And the voices of the children Ringing clear above it all! Yet one house was dim and darkened; Gloom, and sickness, and despair, Dwelling in the gilded chambers, Creeping up the marble stair, Even stilled the voice of mourning,-- For a child lay dying there. Silken curtains fell around him, Velvet carpets hushed the tread, Many costly toys were lying, All unheeded, by his bed; And his tangled golden ringlets Were on downy pillows spread. The skill of that mighty City To save one little life was vain,-- One little thread from being broken, One fatal word from being spoken; Nay, his very mother's pain, And the mighty love within her, Could not give him health again. So she knelt there still beside him, She alone with strength to smile, Promising that he should suffer No more in a little while, Murmuring tender song and story Weary hours to beguile.