You may talk of the exquisite paintings
You guard with the tenderest care ;
Of your statues of Parian marble,
So faultless, so perfect, so rare ;
But give me a call, and I'll show you
Some pictures more fair to behold
Than ever were drawn by the masters,
Whose names down the ages have rolled.

At Christmas I took down my statues,
My Cupids and Psyches and all ;
And the gloom of the place made me shudder
As I turned to the desolate wall-
Bright curls that the sunlight had garnished,
Dark tresses, the midnight had bound,
And mirth-loving eyes, all had vanished,
While red lips could nowhere be found.

But now they are back in their niches,
My statues of value untold ;
My pictures in ebony framings,
And some sfet in amber and gold.
The room has grown bright with their presence,
The gloom and the silence have fled,
For the crown of His sweet benediction
Still rests on each innocent head.

And the thought, as they gather each morning
And murmur the prayer that He gave,
That His dear, loving arms are around them,
Makes my own sinking heart, ofttimes, brave.
So I nestle down closely beside them,
And trust, when the Saviour shall see
The white souls that flutter about me,
His blessing will touch even me.

Am I faithful, I wonder, in tilling
The soil of their hearts day by day?
Will the seed I am patiently sowing
Spring up but to wither away?
The mold is not rocky nor barren,
But tares may spring— tares of sin ;
Yet I trust to His care all their future,
Who gathers the golden sheaves in.