Hush! such a glory was not for thee; But that care may still be thine; For are there not little ones still to aid For the sake of the Child divine? Are there no wandering Pilgrims now, To thy heart and thy home to take? And are there no mothers whose weary hearts You can comfort for Mary's sake? O to have knelt at Jesus' feet, And to have learned his heavenly lore! To have listened the gentle lessons He taught On mountain, and sea, and shore! While the rich and the mighty knew Him not To have meekly done His will:-- Hush! for the worldly reject Him yet, You can serve and love Him still. Time cannot silence His mighty words, And though ages have fled away, His gentle accents of love divine Speak to your soul to-day. O to have solaced that weeping one Whom the righteous dare despise! To have tenderly bound up her scattered hair, And have dried her tearful eyes! Hush! there are broken hearts to soothe, And penitent tears to dry, While Magdalen prays for you and them, From her home in the starry sky. O to have followed the mournful way Of those faithful few forlorn! And grace, beyond even an angel's hope, The Cross for our Lord have borne! To have shared in his tender mother's grief, To have wept at Mary's side, To have lived as a child in her home, and then In her loving care have died! Hush! and with reverent sorrow still, Mary's great anguish share; And learn, for the sake of her son divine, Thy cross, like His, to bear. The sorrows that weigh on thy soul unite With those which thy Lord has borne, And Mary will comfort thy dying hour, Nor leave thy soul forlorn. O to have seen what we now adore, And, though veiled to faithless sight, To have known, in the form that Jesus wore, The Lord of Life and Light! Hush! for He dwells among us still, And a grace can yet be thine, Which the scoffer and doubter can never know,-- The Presence of the Divine. Jesus is with his children yet, For His word can never deceive; Go where His lowly Altars rise And worship and believe. --_Adelaide Procter._ It came upon the midnight clear, That glorious song of old, From angels bending near the earth To touch their harps of gold: "Peace to the earth, good-will to man, From heaven's all-gracious King:" The earth in solemn stillness lay, To hear the angels sing. Still through the cloven skies they come, With peaceful wings unfurled; And still celestial music floats O'er all the weary world; Above its sad and lowly plains They bend on heavenly wing, And ever o'er its Babel sounds, The blessed angels sing.