This, an angel, at the helm,

Thee the waves will not o'erwhelm;
This, an angel, at thy side,
Thou the foaming surge may ride.

Then I will not ask to know
How the tide of years shall flow;
Smooth, I'll pray, and yet if rough,
So God be with thee, 'tis enough.

W. A. MUHLENBERG, D. D.

CHRISTMAS EVE.

God bless the little stockings
All over the land to-night,
Hung in the choicest corners,

In the glow of crimson light!
The tiny, scarlet stocking,

With a hole in the heel and toe, Worn by wonderful journeys The darlings have had to go.

And Heaven pity the children,
Wherever their home may be,
Who wake at the first gray dawning,
An empty stocking to see,
Left, in the faith of childhood,
Hanging against the wall,
Just where the dazzling glory
Of Santa's light will fall!

Alas! for the lonely mother,

Whose cradle is empty still, With never a shoe nor a stocking With dainty toys to fill ! Who sits in the swarthy twilight There, sobbing against the pane, And thinks of the little baby

Whose grave lies out in the rain!

Oh, the empty shoes and stockings
Forever laid aside!

Oh, the tangled, broken shoe-strings,
Never more to be tied!