THE FOOL'S PRAYER

BY EDWARD ROWLAND SILL

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!

"No pity, Lord, could change the heart
From red with wrong to white as wool;
The rod must heal the sin; but, Lord,
Be merciful to me, a fool!

""Tis not by guilt the onward sweep

Of truth and right, O Lord, we stay; 'Tis by our follies that so long

We hold the earth from heaven away.

"These clumsy feet still in the mire,

Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning hands we thrust Among the heartstrings of a friend.

"The ill-timed truth we might have kept, Who knows how sharp it pierced and stung? The word we had not sense to say,

Who knows how grandly it had rung?

"Our faults no tenderness should ask,

The chastening stripes must cleanse them all; But for our blunders,

oh, in shame

Before the eyes of heaven we fall.

"Earth bears no balsam for mistakes;

Men crown the knave, and scourge the tool That did his will; but Thou, O Lord, Be merciful to me, a fool!"

The room was hushed; in silence rose
The king, and sought his gardens cool,
And walked apart, and murmured low:
"Be merciful to me, a fool!"

IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT

BY ARABELLE E. SMITH

If I should die to-night,

My friends would look upon my quiet face
Before they laid it in its resting-place,
And deem that death had left it almost fair;
And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair,
Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,
And fold my hands with lingering caress,
Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!

If I should die to-night,

My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,
Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;
Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;

Errands on which the willing feet had sped;
The memory of my selfishness and pride,
My hasty words, would all be put aside,
And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.

If I should die to-night,

Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,
Recalling other days remorsefully;

The eyes that chill me with averted glance
Would look upon me as of yore, perchance,
And soften, in the old familiar way;

For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay!
So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.

Oh, friends, I pray to-night,

Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow
The way is lonely, let me feel them now.
Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;

My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.
Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!
When dreamless rest is mine I shall not need
The tenderness for which I long to-night.

AMERICA

BY SAMUEL F. SMITH

My country, 't is of thee,
Sweet land of liberty,

Of thee I sing;

Land where my fathers died,
Land of the pilgrims' pride,
From every mountain-side
Let freedom ring.

My native country, thee-
Land of the noble free-
Thy name I love;

I love thy rocks and rills,
Thy woods and templed hills;
My heart with rapture thrills
Like that above.

Let music swell the breeze,
And ring from all the trees
Sweet freedom's song:
Let mortal tongues awake;
Let all that breathe partake;
Let rocks their silence break,-
The sound prolong.

Our fathers' God, to Thee,
Author of liberty,

To Thee we sing;

Long may our land be bright With freedom's holy light;

Protect us by Thy might,

Great God, our King.

THE PAUPER'S DEATH-BED

BY CAROLINE ANNE BOWLES SOUTHEY

Tread softly, bow the head,

In reverent silence bow,

No passing-bell doth toll,

Yet an immortal soul

Is passing now.

Stranger! however great,

With lowly reverence bow;
There's one in that poor shed

One by that paltry bed
Greater than thou.

Beneath that beggar's roof,

Lo! Death doth keep his state. Enter, no crowds attend;

Enter, no guards defend

This palace gate.

That pavement, damp and cold,

No smiling courtiers tread;

One silent woman stands,

Lifting with meagre hands

A dying head.

No mingling voices sound,

An infant wail alone;

A sob suppressed, - again

That short deep gasp, and then

The parting groan.