r's lowly bed;
While, like the spirits of phantom night,
Followed their flocks--their flocks of white.

And patiently, longingly, out of the night,
apart from the others,--far apart,--
Came limping and sorrowful, all alone, the
little gray lamb of the weary heart,
Murmuring, "I must bide far away:
I am not worthy--my fleece is gray."

And the Christ Child looked upon humbled
pride, at kings bent low on the earthen floor,
But gazed beyond at the saddened heart of the
little gray lamb at the open door;
And he called it up to his manger low and laid
his hand on its wrinkled face,
While the kings drew golden robes aside to
give to the weary one a place.
And the fleece of the little gray lamb was blest:
For, lo! it was whiter than all the rest!

* * * * *

In many cathedrals grand and dim, whose windows
glimmer with pane and lens,
Mid the odor of incense raised in prayer, hallowed
about with last amens,
The infant Saviour is pictured fair, with
kneeling Magi wise and old,
But his baby-hand rests--not on the gifts, the
myrrh, the frankincense, the gold--
But on the head, with a heavenly light,
Of the little gray lamb that was changed to white.

THE HOLY NIGHT

ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING

We sate among the stalls at Bethlehem;
The dumb kine from their fodder turning them,
Softened their horned faces
To almost human gazes
Toward the newly Born:
The simple shepherds from the star-lit brooks
Brought visionary looks,
As yet in their astonied hearing rung
The strange sweet angel-tongue:
The magi of the East, in sandals worn,
Knelt reverent, sweeping round,
With long pale beards, their gifts upon the ground,
The incense, myrrh, and gold
These baby hands were impotent to hold:
So let all earthlies and celestials wait
Upon thy royal state.
Sleep, sleep, my kingly One!

THE STAR BEARER

EDMUND CLARENCE STEDMAN

There were seven angels erst that spanned
Heaven's roadway out through space,
Lighting with stars, by God's command,
The fringe of that high place
Whence plumed beings in their joy,
The servitors His thoughts employ,
Fly ceaselessly. No goodlier band
Looked upward to His face.

There, on bright hovering wings that tire
Never, they rested mute,
Nor of far journeys had desire,
Nor of the deathless fruit;
For in and through each angel soul
All waves of life and