THE BLIND CHILD'S CAROL.

My life is in the night—
The never-ending night—
But my soul is not in darkness,
And hath a starry flight.

My nights are like my days—
All never ending days—
And to me a constant morning
Of heaven-enfolding rays.

To me the sun and shade
Are of one substance made,
And one eternal glory,
Which ne'er can fail or fade,

For on my close-seal'd eyes
Hath Christ, in all things wise,
Reversed the common miracle—
And given me inward skies.

Therein His form I trace,
In all it's Infant grace!—
And pictures of His sufferings
For all the human race!

Therein, I recognise
Earth's littleness of size,—
And all the planet-nations
Whom Love will Christianise.

Chorus.
Bright thoughts and hopes are now awake,
As constant as the circling years;
They penetrate each grief, and make
A golden radiance of our tears.

THE SICK CHILD'S CAROL.

You say I do not look so pale to-day,
But in my cheek
A rose-leaf tint begins to bloom and play,
And I am not so weak.
It is because I see you all
So happy at the feast—the ball—
The merry-making in the hall.

And Christmas Eve, and Christmas Day, to me
Are very dear;
They bring a bright and wondering memory
Of one delightful year.
I look back through my little span,
And thinking how its joys began
Forget how thin and changed I am.

They led me—I was then a little child—
Through a dark door,
Into a room all hung with branches wild,
With lights upon the floor;
And lights above—in front—behind—
So bright they almost made me blind,
While other sights confused my mind.

It was the splendour of a Christmas Tree!
With fruits thick hung,
And glittering pictures, lights, and spanglery,
The dark fir boughs among.
While soft-toned music came—and went—
I cried in joy's bewilderment,
"This Tree I 'm sure from heaven was sent!"

Chorus.

Bright sunny hopes are now awake,
As constant as the circling years;
They penetrate each grief, and make
A golden radiance of our tears.

THE HEALTHY CHILD'S CAROL.

Come hither, dear playmates,
Let's rove hand in hand,
And some shall be carried,
And others be led.
You can speak with eyes—fingers—
We all understand,
And away we will go
To the frosty upland,
Where the sun shines like gold
On the roof of the shed.

There, the long row of sliders
Go down the keen slide!
There, others are building
A huge man of snow!
While yonder a crowd,
Half-way down the hill side,
A great snow-ball battle
Are now to decide,
And all the fresh faces
Are sharp and a-glow.

Now come home—draw the curtains,
More coals, and a log!—
Clear the room for the forfeits,
The dance, and the game;
Horace promised to gallop
Thrice round like a dog,
And Virgil will show
His proud feat of "the frog,"
While we all look like ghosts
In the snap-dragon's flame.

The green holly-boughs,
With their berries so red,
Adorn the bright room
Where the feast is set out;
Ah, this is a night
When we can't go to bed,
For no one could sleep
While such mirth fills his head,
With troops of gay fancies
All dancing about.

Now all clasp your hands
At the treasure all find,
That He whose Nativity
Angels now quire,
Gave help to the weak,
In the strength of the mind,
Bidding those who are strong
To be loving and kind,
When the holly-boughs sparkle
And blaze in the fire!

Chorus.
Bright thoughts and hopes are now awake,
As constant as the circling years;
They penetrate each grief, and make
A golden radiance of our tears.
In that confused, yet heavenly shrine,
The soul unearthly music hears;
The Eastern Star sheds rays divine
On our afflictions and our fears;
And now amidst a gleaming halo stands
The Infant Christ—and stretches forth his hands!

Early in January will be published, (with a copious Index,)

Price Three Shillings,

The FIRST VOLUME OF THE

HOUSEHOLD NARRATIVE OF CURRENT EVENTS.

Being a complete ANNUAL REGISTER for the year

EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND FIFTY.