"My masters," a lad said timidly, "As I gave the cattle feed, Came creeping down to the stable door A woman in sorest need.
"I made her a bed in the manger low, At head of the oxen mild, And, masters, I heard a moan of pain, Then the cry of a new-born child."
"A prince shalt thou be!" the Wise Men cried, "For hearkening to that moan, A prince shalt thou be for succor given When the King came to His own!"
"Nay, I'm but a stable-boy," he smiled, With his eager eyes aglow; "No King, but a little naked child, Sleeps out in my manger low."
Hast come to these homes of ours, O Christ, In quest of a meal or bed, And found no welcoming cheer set forth, Nor place to pillow thine head?
Give us a heart aflame with love, Filled with a pity divine, Then come Thou as beggar, or babe, or king, The best that we have is Thine.
SOLDIERS ALL.
They're praying for the soldier lads in grim old London town; Last night I went, myself, and heard a bishop in his gown Confiding to the Lord of Hosts his views of this affair. "We do petition Thee," he said, "to have a watchful care Of all the stalwart men and strong who at their country's call Went sailing off to Africa to fight, perchance to fall!" "Amen!" a thousand voices cried. I whispered low: "Dear Lord, A host is praying for the men, I want to say a word For those who stay at home and wait—the mothers and the wives. Keep close to them and help them bear their cheerless, empty lives!"