She flung Love's precious pearls away,
And woke, but woke, alas, too late.

She woke to find herself alone,
Save baby sleeping at her breast:
In that vast city all unknown,
Unloved, unpitied, and unblest.

Unloved by one who swore to love;
Unpitied by the cruel crowd;
Unblest by all save Him above,
To whom she prayed in grief aloud.

In fitful dreams she saw, and oft,
That humble cottage by the burn;
And heard a voice, so sweet and soft:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."

"She may return." Delicious dream.
"Then mother loves me still," she sighed.
Ah! little knew she of the stream
Of tears that mother shed and dried.

Of weary watches in the night;
Of aching heart throughout the day;
Of darkened hours that once were bright,
Made glad by her now far away.

And when, in unforgiving mood,
The father urged his tenets stern,
How oft that mother tearful stood:
"Don't bolt the door, she may return."

PART THE THIRD.

'Tis Christmas Eve: the midnight chime
With mystic music fills the air,
And bears the news, "'Tis Christmas time,"
In sobbing wavelets everywhere.

Without, the weird wind whistles by;
Clothed is the ground with drifting snow;
Within, the yule logs, piled on high,
Their cheery warmth and comfort throw.

And in that cottage by the moor,
Where father, mother, mourning dwell.
The fire is bright, where hearts are sore
The chime to them a mournful knell.

"What's that?" the mother faintly said:
"Methought I heard a weary sigh."
The father sadly shook his head:
"Tis but the wind that wanders by."

Again the Dame, with drowsy start--
"It is no dream--I heard a groan."
Oh, the misgivings of her heart!
"'Tis but the music's murmuring moan."

They little thought, while thus they sighed,
That at their threshold, fainting, lay
The child for whom they would have died,
For whom they prayed both night and day.

'Twas bitter chill! The snowy fall
Came drifting slowly through the air,
And gently clothed with ghostly pall
The wasted form that slumbered there.

And all the live-long night she slept,
While breaking hearts within grew sore;
While father, mother, mourned and wept,
She lay in silence at the door.

Till, in the morning, all aglow,
The sun, in looking o'er the hill,
Like sculptured marble in the