wide stretch of the sea,

Drifting, slowly drifting on into God's eternity;

With broken rudder, sailless mast, and oars that idly ride,

From home and shore I drift upon the

outward-going tide. Drifting, slowly drifting through the vessels in the bay,

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

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

The breezes fresh from Paradise blow softly over me;

My heart, once filled with strange unrest, is grown so calm and still!

I look beyond the rolling sea to God's immortal hill,

Drifting, slowly drifting on with heart and lips that pray,

From those I love upon the shore, I

drift and drift away.

We

The

MARY MAPES DODGE.

[U. S. A.]

THE TWO MYSTERIES.

know not what it is, dear, this sleep so deep and still;

folded hands, the awful calm, the cheek so pale and chill;

The lids that will not lift again, though we may call and call; strange, white solitude of peace that settles over all.

The

white streak of the day

we live and see!

Body, I pray you, let me go!"

(It is a Soul that striveth so.)

'Body, I hear dim sounds afar
Dripping from some diviner star;
Dim sounds of joyous harmony.
It is my mates that sing, and I
Must drink that song or break my heart-
Body, I pray you, let us part.

"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.