I am dying, Egypt, dying;

Hark! the insulting foeman's cry.
They are coming! quick, my falchion,

Let me front them ere I die.
Ah! no more amid the battle

Shall my heart exulting swell;
Isis and Osiris guard thee!

Cleopatra, Rome, farewell!

THE WATER MILL

BY DANIEL CRAIG MC CALLUM

In a copy of this poem presented to the editor, the author inserted the word again” in the last line of each verse, and in the third verse substituted “thy kindness sow broadcast" for true love alone will last."

Oh! listen to the Water-Mill, through all the livelong

day, As the clicking of the wheel wears hour by hour

away; How languidly the Autumn wind doth stir the withered

leaves, As on the field the reapers sing, while binding up the

sheaves. A solemn proverb strikes my mind, and as a spell is

cast, The mill will never grind again with water that is

past."

Soft summer winds revive no more, leaves strewn o'er earth and main,

The sickle nevermore will reap the yellow-garnered

grain; The rippling stream flows ever on, aye tranquil, deep

and still, But never glideth back again, to busy Water-Mill. The solemn proverb speaks to all, with meaning deep

and vast. The mill will never grind again with water that is

past.”

Oh! clasp the proverb to thy soul, dear loving heart

and true, For golden years are fleeting by, and youth is passing

too. Ah! learn to make the most of life, nor lose one happy

day, For time will ne'er return sweet joys, neglected, thrown

away, Nor leave one tender word unsaid, thy kindness sow

broadcast, “The mill will never grind again with water that is

past."

Oh! the wasted hours of life, that have swiftly drifted

by; Alas! the good we might have done, all gone without

a sigh; Love that we might once have saved, by a single kindly

word, Thoughts conceived but ne'er expressed, perishing unpenned, unheard.

Oh! take the lesson to thy soul, forever clasp it fast, “The mill will never grind again with water that is

past."

Work on while yet the sun doth shine, thou man of

strength and will, The streamlet ne'er doth useless glide by clicking

water-mill; Nor wait until to-morrow's light, beams brightly on

thy way, For all that thou can’st call thine own, lies in the

phrase to-day. Possessions, power, and blooming health must all be

lost at last, “The mill will never grind again with water that is

past."

Oh! love thy God and fellow men, thyself consider last, For come it will when thou must scan dark errors of

the past. Soon will this fight of life be o'er, and earth recede

from view, And Heaven in all its glory shine, where all is pure and

true. Ah! then thou'lt see more clearly still, the proverb

deep and vast, “ The mill will never grind again with water that is

past."

Tempered the heap with thrill of human tears;
Then mixed a laughter with the serious stuff.
Into the shape she breathed a flame to light
That tender, tragic, ever-changing face.
Here was a man to hold against the world,
A man to match the mountains and the sea.

The color of the ground was in him, the red earth;
The smack and tang of elemental things:
The rectitude and patience of the cliff;
The good-will of the rain that loves all leaves;
The friendly welcome of the wayside well;
The courage of the bird that dares the sea;
The gladness of the wind that shakes the corn;
The mercy of the snow that hides all scars;
The
secrecy

of streams that make their way
Beneath the mountain to the rifted rock;
The undelaying justice of the light
That gives as freely to the shrinking flower
As to the great oak flaring to the wind –
To the grave's low hill as to the Matterhorn
That shoulders out the sky.

Sprung from the West, The strength of virgin forests braced his mind, The hush of spacious prairies stilled his soul. Up from log cabin to the Capitol, One fire was on his spirit, one resolve To send the keen axe to the root of wrong, Clearing a free way for the feet of God. And evermore he burned to do his deed

With the fine stroke and gesture of a king:
He built the rail-pile as he built the State,
Pouring his splendid strength through every blow,
The conscience of him testing every stroke,
To make his deed the measure of a man.

So came the Captain with the thinking heart;
And when the judgment thunders split the house,
Wrenching the rafters from their ancient rest,
He held the ridgepole up, and spiked again
The rafters of the Home. He held his place —
Held the long purpose like a growing tree
Held on through blame and faltered not at praise.
And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon

the hills, And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

O, LAY THY HAND IN MINE, DEAR

BY GERALD MASSEY

O, lay thy hand in mine, dear!

We're growing old;
But Time hath brought no sign, dear,

That hearts grow cold.
”T is long, long since our new love

Made life divine;
But
age

enricheth true love,
Like noble wine.