_S. Joseph._

A cloistered garden was the place Where Mary grew, God's perfect flower; One, only one, discerned her grace, And visited her bower.

God's choice was his; by love made strong To guard the Mother of the King; No heart, save hers, had e'er a song So sweet as his to sing.

Yet lives there on the sacred page No record of a word from him; God's Ark he guards, a silent sage, Pure as the Cherubim.

But sweeter than the sweetest word Recorded of the wise and good, His silence is a music heard On high, and understood.

Blessed are all who take their part Amid the carol-singing throng; Thrice blest the meditative heart Whose silence is a song.

BALLACHULISH: 1884.

A CRADLE SONG.

Sing, ye winds, and sing, ye waters, May the music of your song Silence all the dark forebodings That have plagued the world too long; He who made your voices tuneful Comes to right the wrong.

Warble on, ye feathered songsters, Lift your praises loud and high, Merry lark, and thrush, and blackbird, In the grove and in the sky Make your music, shame our dumbness, Till we make reply.

Children's laughter is a music Flowing from a hidden spring, Which, though men misdoubt its virtue, Well is worth discovering; Slowly dies the heart that knows not How to laugh and sing.

Hark, a cradle-song! the Singer Is the Heart of God Most High; All sweet voices are the echoes That in varied tones reply To that Voice which through the ages Sings earth's lullaby.

Oftentimes a sleepless infant For a season frets and cries: All at once an unseen finger Curtains up the little eyes. So the cradled child He nurses God will tranquillise.

His the all-enfolding Presence; Oh, what tutelage it brings To the little lives that ripen 'Neath the shelter of its wings; God's delays are no denials, As He waits He sings!

They alone are seers and singers Who invalidate despair By the lofty hopes they cherish, By the gallant deeds they dare, By the ceaseless aspirations Of a life of prayer.

Brothers, sisters, lift your voices, May the rapture of your song Put to flight the sad misgivings That have vexed the world too long; God would have us share the triumph That shall right the wrong.

LOCH LAGGAN: 1884.