At last earth's hope was granted, And God was a child of earth; And a thousand angels chanted The lowly midnight birth. Ah! Bethlehem was grander That hour than paradise; And the light of earth that night eclipsed The splendour of the skies. Then let us sing the anthem, The angels once did sing; Until the music of love and praise O'er whole wide world will ring. Glory in excelsis! Sound the thrilling song; In excelsis Deo! Roll the hymn along. [Illustration: Then let us sing the anthem The angels once did sing.] Glory in excelsis! Let the heavens ring; In excelsis Deo! Welcome, new-born King. Gloria in excelsis! Over the sea and land, In excelsis Deo! Chant the anthem grand. Gloria in excelsis! Let us all rejoice! In excelsis Deo! Lift each heart and voice. Gloria in excelsis! Swell the hymn on high; In excelsis Deo! Sound it to the sky. Gloria in excelsis! Sing it sinful earth. In excelsis Deo! For the Saviour's birth. Thus joyful and victoriously, Glad and ever so gloriously, High as the heavens, wide as the earth, Swelleth the hymn of the Saviour's birth. THE VOICE IN THE PINES. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE. The morn is softly beautiful and still, Its light, fair clouds in pencilled gold and gray Pause motionless above the pine-grown hill, Where the pines, tranced as by a wizard's will, Uprise as mute and motionless as they! Yea! mute and moveless; not one flickering spray Flashed into sunlight, nor a gaunt bough stirred; Yet, if wooed hence beneath those pines to stray, We catch a faint, thin murmur far away, A bodiless voice, by grosser ears unheard. What voice is this? What low and solemn tone, Which, though all wings of all the winds seemed furled, Nor even the zephyr's fairy flute is blown, Makes thus forever its mysterious moan From out the whispering pine-tops' shadowy world? Ah! can it be the antique tales are true? Doth some lone Dryad haunt the breezeless air, Fronting yon bright immitigable blue, And wildly breathing all her wild soul through That strange unearthly music of despair? Or can it be that ages since, storm-tossed, And driven far inland from the roaring lea, Some baffled ocean-spirit, worn and lost, Here, through dry summer's dearth and winter's frost, Yearns for the sharp, sweet kisses of the sea? Whate'er the spell, I harken and am dumb, Dream-touched, and musing in the tranquil morn; All woodland sounds--the pheasant's gusty drum, The mock-bird's fugue, the droning insect's hum-- Scarce heard for that strange, sorrowful voice forlorn! Beneath the drowsed sense, from deep to deep Of spiritual life its mournful minor flows, Streamlike, with pensive tide, whose currents keep Low murmuring 'twixt the bounds of grief and sleep, Yet locked for aye for sleep's divine repose. ASPECTS OF THE PINES. PAUL HAMILTON HAYNE.