Grows wide across the darkness spread above the landlocked bay;

I seem to see the gate unfold, the crystal eastern gate,

And drift from those I love on shore to those I love who wait.

Drifting, slowly drifting, with my earthly struggles done,

Alone, unfollowed, out I drift to God's unsetting sun.

Drifting, slowly drifting to the great wide stretch of the sea,

From earth's unrest 1 drift away into eternity;

No bitter sound of fray can reach across my vessel's side,

And so I drift in restful peace upon the outward tide.

Drifting, slowly drifting through the boats that fill the bay,

From those I love upon the shore I drift and drift away.

66

'Comrade, your frame is worn and frail,
Your vital powers begin to fail;
I long for life, but you for rest ;
Then, Body, let us both be blest.
When you are lying 'neath the dew
I'll come, sometimes, and sing to you;
But you will feel nor pain nor woe
Body, I pray you, let me go."

Thus strove a Being; Beauty fain,
He broke his bonds and fled amain.
He fled the Body lay bereft,
But on its lips a smile was left,

As if that Spirit, looking back,
Shouted upon his upward track,
With joyous tone and hurried breath,
Some message that could comfort Death

WILLIAM WETMORE STORY.

[U. s. A.]

IO VICTIS!

-

I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life, The hymn of the wounded, the beaten who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary, the broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With Death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus, its pæan for those who have won,

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet

Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,

In the shadow, with those who are faller, and wounded, and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a

prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;

of the heat,

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For He knew he was one of the few He could choose

To fight out His battles, and carry His

news

Of a marvellous truth through the dark, and the dews,

And the desert-lands furnaced!

He knew he was one of the few He could take

For His mission supernal;

Whose feet would not falter, whose limbs would not ache,

Through the waterless lands of the thorn and the snake,

And the ways of the wild-bearing up for the sake

Of a Beauty eternal.

And therefore the road to Damascus was burned

With a swift, sudden brightness;

While Saul with his face in the bitter

dust, learned

Of the sin which he did, ere he tumbled, and turned

Aghast at God's whiteness;

feet,

his head

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

[U. s. A., 1841-1887.]

THE FOOL'S PRAYER.

THE royal feast was done; the King
Sought some new sport to banish care,
And to his jester cried: "Sir Fool,
Kneel now,
and make for us a prayer!"

The jester doffed his cap and bells,
And stood the mocking court before;
They could not see the bitter smile
Behind the painted grin he wore.

He bowed his head, and bent his knee
Upon the monarch's silken stool;
His pleading voice arose: O Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!