TO MY WIFE.

THOU in whose love's deep-bosomed bay
My heart hath anchor at the last,
That many a skyless night and day

Rocked on the billows of the past-
Whose name should fill my latest line,
And crown my little work, but thine?

Pure and compassionate and true,

And adding to these things the love Of all that live beneath the blue,

And One who lives, we think, aboveEnough if my poor rimes might be

A little like, sweet heart, to thee.

April, 1877.

POEMS OF THE RELIGIOUS IMAGINATION.

THE CHRIST-CHILD.

A POEM FOR CHRISTMAS-EVE.

IN a far country many a mile away

Eastward across the tossing northern sea, Wherefrom our fathers sailed in olden day,

But now it speaks another tung than we— In a far country, as the people say,

This eve a sweet strange vision takes its flight Atwixt the setting sun and dawning light.

East from the Syrian shore 'tis said to come,
And to the western water as it flies

It stands on every hearth, nor turneth from
The strawen pallet where the rough carl lies,
But aye before the rich man's gilded home
The windbeat hut upon the snowy wild
Knows the soft footfall of the angel-child.

None hear the Christ-Child. Ever silently
The barred door opens to the tiny hand,