She listened to the tale divine,
    And closer still the Babe she prest;
  And while she cried, The Babe is mine! 
    The milk rushed faster to her breast;
  Joy rose within her like a summer’s morn;
  Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

  Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
    Poor, simple, and of low estate! 
  That strife should vanish, battle cease,
    O why should this thy soul elate? 
  Sweet music’s loudest note, the poet’ story—­
  Didst thou ne’er love to hear of fame and glory?

  And is not War a youthful king,
    A stately hero clad in mail? 
  Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
    Him Earth’s majestic monarch’s hail
  Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
  Compels the maiden’s love-confessing sigh.

  ’Tell this in some more courtly scene,
    To maids and youths in robes of state! 
  I am a woman poor and mean,
    And therefore is my soul elate. 
  War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,
  That from the aged father tears his child!

  “A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
    He kills the sire and starves the son;
  The husband kills, and from her hoard
    Steals all his widow’s toil had won;
  Plunders God’s world of beauty; rends away
  All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

  “Then wisely is my soul elate,
    That strife should vanish, battle cease;
  I’m poor and of a low estate,
    The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
  Joy rises in me like a summer’s morn;
  Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.”

_—­S.T.  Coleridge._

* * * * *

=The Christmas Tree.=

    (Recitation for a boy to give before a Christmas tree is
    dismantled.)

  Of all the trees in the woods and fields
    There’s none like the Christmas tree;
  Tho’ rich and rare is the fruit he yields,
    The strangest of trees is he. 
  Some drink their fill from the shower or rill;
    No cooling draught needs he;
  Some bend and break when the storms awake,
    But they reach not the Christmas tree. 
  When wintry winds thro’ the forests sweep,
    And snow robes the leafless limb;
  When cold and still is the ice-bound deep,
    O this is the time for him. 
  Beneath the dome of the sunny home,
    He stands with all his charms;
  ’Mid laugh and song from the youthful throng,
    As they gaze on his fruitful arms. 
  There’s golden fruit on the Christmas tree,
    And gems for the fair and gay;
  The lettered page for the mind bears he,
    And robes for the wintry day. 
  And there are toys for the girls and boys;
    And eyes that years bedim
  Grow strangely bright, with a youthful light,
    As they pluck from the pendant limb.

* * * * *