Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew
And struck for Liberty the dying blow ;
Nor him who, to his sire and country true,
Fell 'mid the ranks of the invading foe.

Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on,
Like the low murmur of a hive at noon;
Long, but not loud, the memory of the gone

Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune.
At last the thread was snapped; her head was bowed;
Life dropped the distaff through his hands serene;
And loving neighbors smoothed her careful shroud,
While Death and Winter closed the autumn scene.
THOMAS BUCHANAN READ.

ENDURANCE

How much the heart may bear, and yet not break!
How much the flesh may suffer, and not die!

I question much if any pain or ache

Of soul or body brings our end more nigh :
Death chooses his own time; till that is sworn,
All evils may be borne.

We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife,
Each nerve recoiling from the cruel steel
Whose edge seems searching for the quivering life;
Yet to our sense the bitter pangs reveal,
That still, although the trembling flesh be torn,
This also can be borne.

We see a sorrow rising in our way,

And try to flee from the approaching ill;
We seek some small escape: we weep and pray;
But when the blow falls, then our hearts are still;
Not that the pain is of its sharpness shorn
But that it can be borne.

We wind our life about another life;
We hold it closer, dearer than our own :

Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife,

Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone;
But ah! we do not die with those we mourn,—
This also can be borne.

Behold, we live through all things,— famine, thirst,
Bereavement, pain; all grief and misery,

All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst
On soul and body,- but we cannot die.
Though we be sick, and tired, and faint, and worn,—
Lo, all things can be borne !

ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLORENCE PERCY).

OUTGROWN

NAY, you wrong her, my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown :

One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own.

Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say;

And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and

"made up

"in play.

And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the

truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier

youth.

Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the selfsame plane,

Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls should be parted again.

She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's

early May;

And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you

to-day.

Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or

go down;

And hers has been steadily soaring — but how has it been with your own?

She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year:

The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmo

sphere !

For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago,

Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves

is to grow.

Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer: but their vision is clearer

as well;

Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell.

Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked :

The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked.

And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed?

Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed?

Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on ?

Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of vic

tory won ?

Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you.

her presence you stood

When to-day in

Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood?

Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled :

Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead.

She cannot look down to her lover her love, like her soul, aspires;

He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires.

Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth,

As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly as I might in our earlier youth.

JULIA C. R. Dorr.

THE PENITENT

ST. AGNES' Eve,- ah, bitter chill it was!
The owl, for all his feathers, was a-cold;

The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass,
And silent was the flock in woolly fold;

Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told
His rosary, and while his frosted breath,

Like pious incense from a censer old,

Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death,

Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith.

His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ;
Then takes his lamp, and riseth from his knees,
And back returneth, meagre, barefoot, wan,
Along the chapel aisle by slow degrees;

The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze,
Imprisoned in black, purgatorial rails;
Knights, ladies, praying in dumb orat❜ries,
He passeth by; and his weak spirit fails

To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails.

Northward he turneth through a little door,
And scarce three steps, ere music's golden tongue
Flattered to tears this aged man and poor;
But no,- already had his death-bell rung;
The joys of all his life were said and sung:
His was harsh penance on St. Agnes' Eve:
Another way he went, and soon among
Rough ashes sat he for his soul's reprieve,
And all night kept awake, for sinners' sake to grieve.

JOHN KEATS (Eve of St. Agnes).

THE AIM OF LIFE

We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;
In feelings, not in figures on a dial.

We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives
Who thinks most, feels the noblest, acts the best.
And he whose heart beats quickest, lives the longest :
Lives in one hour more than in years
do some
Whose fat blood sleeps as it slips along their veins.
Life is but a means unto an end; that end,
Beginning, mean, and end to all things God.
The dead have all the glory of the world.

PHILIP JAMES BAILEY (Festus).

FAME

WHAT shall I do lest life in silence pass?
And if it do,

And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,
What need'st thou rue ?

Remember

aye

the ocean deeps are mute; The shallows roar ;

Worth is the ocean, fame is but the bruit

Along the shore.

What shall I do to be forever known?
Thy duty ever.

This did full many who yet slept unknown.
Oh! never, never!

Think'st thou, perchance, that they remain unknown
Whom thou know'st not?

By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown,—
Divine their lot!

What shall I do to gain eternal life?
Discharge aright

The simple dues with which each day is rife!
Yea, with thy might!

(From the German of Schiller.)

MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN

THREE words fall sweetly on my soul
As music from an angel lyre,
That bid my spirit spurn control
And upward to its source aspire ;
The sweetest sounds to mortals given
Are heard in Mother, Home, and Heaven.

Dear Mother! ne'er shall I forget

Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile!
Though in the sea of death hath set
Thy star of life, my guide awhile,
Oh, never shall thy form depart
From the bright pictures in my heart.

And like a bird that from the flowers,
Wing-weary seeks her wonted nest,
My spirit, e'en in manhood's hours,

Turns back in childhood's Home to rest;
The cottage, garden, hill, and stream,
Still linger like a pleasant dream.

And while to one engulfing grave,

By time's swift tide we 're driven,
How sweet the thought that every wave
But bears us nearer Heaven!
There we shall meet when life is o'er,
In that blest Home, to part no more.

WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN.

THE END OF THE PLAY

---

THE play is done, the curtain drops,
Slow falling to the prompter's bell;

A moment yet the actor stops,

And looks around, to say farewell.