be reft in pieces, but the wearer of it is now doing what will be reflected by thousands who will be made and moulded by him. Dignity, and rank, and riches, are all corruptible and worthless; but moral character has an immortality that no sword-point can destroy; that ever walks the world and leaves lasting influences behind.

What we do is transacted on a stage of which all in the universe are spectators. What we say is transmitted in echoes that will never cease. What we are is influencing and acting on the rest of mankind. Neutral we cannot be. Living we act, and dead we speak; and the whole universe is the mighty company forever looking, forever listening, and all nature the tablets forever recording the words, the deeds, the thoughts, the passions of mankind!

Monuments, and columns, and statues, erected to heroes, poets, orators, statesmen, are all influences that extend into the future ages. The blind old man of Scio's rocky isle" still speaks. The Mantuan bard† still sings in every school. Shakspeare, the bard of Avon, is still translated into every tongue. The philosophy of the Stagyrite is still felt in every academy. Whether these influences are beneficent or the reverse, they are influences fraught with power. How blest must be the recollection of those who, like the setting sun, have left a trail of light behind them by which others may see the way to that rest which remaineth for the people of God!

It is only the pure fountain that brings forth pure water. The good tree only will produce the good fruit. If the centre from which all proceeds is pure and holy, the radii of influence from it will be pure and holy also. Go forth, then, into the spheres that you occupy, the employments, the trades, the professions of social life; go forth into the high places, or into the lowly places of the land; mix with the roaring cataracts of social convulsions, or mingle amid the eddies and streamlets of quiet and domestic life; whatever sphere you fill, carrying into it a holy heart, you will radiate around you life and power, and leave behind you holy and beneficent influences.

* Homer.

† Virgil.

Aristotle.

THE BANNER OF THE CROSS.

H

In hoc signo vinces.

IGH above the conquering march, Where the Roman cohorts stride; High above triumphal arch,

Under which crowned Cæsars ride; Lo! where once Rome's eagle flew,

Cresting standard, spear, and boss, Bathed in heaven's own morning dew, Floats the Banner of the Cross!

Saviour! in these latter days,

Let no more thy banner fly Where the fires of battle blaze,

Where the lust of power burns high. 'Neath its folds bid passion cease,

Hush the storms of wrath and fear,
Be it now the flag of peace -
To the nations everywhere.

And, O Lord! when here below
All our pilgrim work is done,
Let it lead thy children through
To the kingdom of thy Son.
Then above that heavenly fane,
Be its glorious station given,
Where to praise "the Lamb once slain"
Is the "banner-cry" of heaven.

DIRGE FOR A SAILOR.

She sea-waves
SLO
LOW, slow! toll it low,

As the sea-waves break and flow;

With the same dull, slumberous motion

As his ancient mother, Ocean,

Rocked him on through storm and calm, From the iceberg to the palm:

So his drowsy ears may deem

That the sound which breaks his dream

Is the ever-moaning tide

Washing on his vessel's side.

Slow, slow! as we go,

Swing his coffin to and fro;
As of old the lusty billow
Swayed him on his heaving pillow:
So that he may fancy still,
Climbing up the watery hill,
Plunging in the watery vale,
With her wide distended sail,

His good bark securely stands
Onward to the golden lands.

Slow, slow! heave-a-ho!

Lower him to the mould below
With the well-known sailors' chorus,
Lest he paler grow before us

At the thought that Ocean's child,
From his mother's arms beguiled,
Must repose for countless years,
Reft of all her briny tears,

All the rights he owned by birth,
In the dusty lap of earth.

H

AFTER THE BATTLE.

OLD the lantern aside, and shudder not so!

There's more blood to see than this stain on the snow!

There are pools of it, lakes of it, just over there,

And fixed faces all streaked, and crimson-soaked hair!
Did you think, when we came, you and I, out to-night
To search for our dead, yon would be a fair sight?

You're his wife; you love him -you think so; and I
Am only his mother: my boy shall not lie
In a ditch with the rest, while my arms can bear
His form to a grave that mine own may soon share!
So, if your strength fails, best go sit by the hearth,
While his mother alone seeks his bed on the earth.

You will go! then no faintings! Give me the light,
And follow my footsteps! — my heart will lead right!
Ah, God! what is here? a great heap of the slain,
All mangled and gory! what horrible pain

These beings have died in! Dear mothers, ye weep,
Ye weep, oh, ye weep o'er this terrible sleep!

More! more! Ah! I thought I could nevermore know
Grief, horror, or pity for ought here below,

Since I stood in the porch and heard his chief tell,
How brave was my son, how he gallantly fell!
Did they think I cared then to see officers stand
Before my great sorrow, each hat in each hand?

Why, girl, do you feel neither reverence nor fright,
That your red hands turn over
These dead men that stare so?

toward this dim light
Ah, if you had kept
Your senses this morning ere his comrades had left,
You had heard that his place was worst of them all.
Not 'mid the stragglers — where he fought he would fall!

There's the moon through the clouds: O Christ, what a scene!
Dost thou from thy heavens o'er such visions lean,
And still call this cursed world a footstool of thine?
Hark! a groan; there, another - here in this line
Piled close on each other. Ah, here is the flag,
Torn, dripping with gore-Pah! they died for this rag!

Here's the voice that we seek — poor soul, do not start:
We're women, not ghosts. What a gash o'er the heart!
Is there aught we can do? a message to give

To any beloved one? I swear, if I live,

To take it for sake of the words my boy said,

"Home," "mother," "wife". ere he reeled down 'mong the dead!

But, first, can you tell where his regiment stood?

Speak, speak, man, or point!

't was the Ninth!-oh, the blood
look of despair!

Is choking his voice! what a
There, lean on my knee, while I put back the hair
From eyes so fast glazing. Oh, my darling, my own,
My hands were both idle when you died alone!

He's dying-he's dead!-close his lids- let us go.
God's peace on his soul! If we only could know
Where our own dear one lies! - my soul has turned sick!
Must we crawl o'er these bodies that lie here so thick?
I cannot! I cannot! How eager you are!

One might think you were nursed on the red lap of War!