Peace on the farthest seas, Peace in our sheltered bays and ample streams, Peace whereso'er our starry garland gleams; And peace in every breeze! Peace on the whirring marts, Peace where the scholar thinks--the hunter roams, Peace, God of Peace! Peace, peace, in all our homes, And peace in all our hearts! [Illustration: "Peace in the quiet dales Made rankly fertile by the blood of men."] LA BELLE JUIVE. HENRY TIMROD. Is it because your sable hair Is folded over brows that wear At times a too imperial air; Or is it that the thoughts which rise In those dark orbs do seek disguise Beneath the lids of Eastern eyes; That choose whatever pose or place May chance to please, in you I trace The noblest woman of your race? The crowd is sauntering at its ease, And humming like a hive of bees-- You take your seat and touch the keys: I do not hear the giddy throng; The sea avenges Israel's wrong, And on the mind floats Miriam's song! You join me with a stately grace; Music to Poesy gives place; Some grand emotion lights your face: At once I stand by Mizpeh's walls; With smiles the martyred daughter falls, And desolate are Mizpeh's halls! Intrusive babblers come between; With calm, pale brow and lofty mein, You thread the circle like a queen! Then sweeps the royal Esther by; The deep devotion in her eye, Is looking "If I die, I die!" You stroll the gardener's flowery walks; The plants to me are grainless stalks, And Ruth to old Naomi talks. Adopted child of Judah's creed, Like Judah's daughters, true at need, I see you mid the alien seed. I watch afar the gleaner sweet; I watch like Boaz in the wheat, And find you lying at my feet. My feet! Oh! if the spell that lures, My heart through all these dreams endures, How soon shall I be stretched at yours! TO HELEN. EDGAR ALLAN POE. Helen, thy beauty is to me Like those Nicean barks of yore, That gently, o'er a perfumed sea, The weary, way-worn wanderer bore To his own native shore. On desperate seas long wont to roam, Thy hyacinth hair, thy classic face, Thy Naiad airs have brought me home To the glory that was Greece And the grandeur that was Rome. Lo! in yon brilliant window-niche How statue-like I see thee stand! The agate lamp within thy hand, Ah! Psyche, from the regions which Are Holy Land! A CHRISTMAS CHANT. FATHER RYAN. Four thousand years earth waited, Four thousand years men prayed, Four thousand years the nations sighed That their King so long delayed. The prophets told His coming, The saintly for Him sighed; And the star of the Babe of Bethlehem Shone o'er them when they died. Their faces toward the future, They longed to hail the light That in the after centuries Would rise on Christmas night. But still the Saviour tarried, Within His father's home; And the nations wept and wondered why The promise had not come.