Then her guests from the glare of the noonday she led
    To a seat in her grotto so cool;
  Where she spread them a banquet of fruits, and a shed,
    With a manger, was found for the mule;
  With the wine of the palm-tree, with dates newly culled,
    All the toil of the day she beguiled;
  And with song in a language mysterious she lulled
    On her bosom the wayfaring child.

  When the gypsy anon in her Ethiop hand
    Took the infant’s diminutive palm,
  O, ’twas fearful to see how the features she scanned
    Of the babe in his slumbers so calm! 
  Well she noted each mark and each furrow that crossed
    O’er the tracings of destiny’s line: 
  “WHENCE CAME YE?” she cried, in astonishment lost,
    “FOR THIS CHILD IS OF LINEAGE DIVINE!”

  “From the village of Nazareth,” Joseph replied,
    “Where we dwelt in the land of the Jew,
  We have fled from a tyrant whose garment is dyed
    In the gore of the children he slew: 
  We were told to remain till an angel’s command
    Should appoint us the hour to return;
  But till then we inhabit the foreigners’ land,
    And in Egypt we make our sojourn.”

  “Then ye tarry with me,” cried the gypsy in joy,
    “And ye make of my dwelling your home;
  Many years have I prayed that the Israelite boy
    (Blessed hope of the Gentiles!) would come.” 
  And she kissed both the feet of the infant and knelt,
    And adored him at once; then a smile
  Lit the face of his mother, who cheerfully dwelt
    With her host on the bank of the Nile.

FRANCIS MAHONY (Father Prout).

* * * * *

CANA.

  Dear Friend! whose presence in the house,
    Whose gracious word benign,
  Could once, at Cana’s wedding feast,
    Change water into wine;

  Come, visit us! and when dull work
    Grows weary, line on line,
  Revive our souls, and let us see
    Life’s water turned to wine.

  Gay mirth shall deepen into joy,
    Earth’s hopes grow half divine,
  When Jesus visits us, to make
    Life’s water glow as wine.

  The social talk, the evening fire,
    The homely household shrine,
  Grow bright with angel visits, when
    The Lord pours out the wine.

  For when self-seeking turns to love,
    Not knowing mine nor thine,
  The miracle again is wrought,
    And water turned to wine. 
JAMES FREEMAN CLARKE.

* * * * *

THE LOST SHEEP.

    ("THE NINETY AND NINE.”)

  There were ninety and nine that safely lay
    In the shelter of the fold;
  But one was out on the hills away,
    Far off from the gates of gold,
  Away on the mountain wild and bare,
  Away from the tender Shepherd’s care.

  “Lord, thou hast here thy ninety and nine: 
    Are they not enough for thee?”
  But the Shepherd made answer:  “’T is of mine
    Has wandered away from me;
  And although the road be rough and steep
  I go to the desert to find my sheep.”