Deep is our sorrow, deep our disgrace,
Lord, from thy people hide not Thy face.
Now, while affliction darkens our sun,
Help us to say, Lord, "Thy will be done."
Unto our cry, Lord, Thine ear incline;
Help us to know that Wisdom is Thine;
All Thou wouldst teach, Lord, aid us to learn;
Forbid, ah, forbid, Thy rod we should spurn.
Father, behold Thy children's deep woe;
Unto our sins do Thou mercy show;

Draw near our hearts in our day of affliction;
Grant to our souls Thy divine benediction.
Elkhart, Ind.
Mary Frances Bigelow.

The feeling that by too indulgent toleration of the infamous doctrines whose disciple slew the good President the nation has fallen into disgrace and incurred a stain upon its honor which must be effaced, expressed in the foregoing, has struck other writers even more forcibly:

The sense of personal loss which millions felt in William McKinley's death is well expressed in the following lines, whose author omitted to give either name or address:

The nations pause in startled grief

At the awful word

The nations that his wise, just voice
Attentive heard-

But we his people but behold

Our chief laid low

We can but sob from stricken hearts,
"We loved him so!"

The stalwart craftsman at his toil
Turns pale and still;

The clamors falter in the mart,
And hard eyes fill;

The plowman cries across his fields
With words of woe,

And children whisper tearfully,

"We loved him so!"

The starry flag, the flag he spread
O'er new-born lands,

Droops low upon its staff to seek

Those patient hands;

Great God! Thou who alone our hearts

Canst wholly know,

To him give thy Eternal Peace

We loved him so!

The belief that McKinley, the man, even more than McKinley, the statesman, deserves to be mourned, the lesson his life should teach, and the example his career has left to posterity are touched upon in the following poems:

WE MOURN THE MAN.

Nobility at last must reach the plain
Where all life finds a level once again.
Not fame, with all its panoply of power,
Can soothe the anguish of the final hour;
One day a pauper to the potter's field,
The next a King to destiny doth yield.
No downy couch awaits the monarch's form,
For Mother Earth's embrace is just as warm
For pauper as for Prince-or just as cold;
No diadem can keep away the mold.

Chicago.

Nobility of soul means more than birth.
The truly great is he of simple worth,
Who ever strives to do the Master's will
With benefit for hurt, with good for ill.

We mourn the man, forgetting his estate,
For he was good-what matters it how great?
The note this nation voices in its grief

Is not mere honor paid a martyr'd chief.

It is the sign of sympathy and love

Wrought in our hearts by him who reigns above.

Eternal God, Preserver of mankind,

Hear Thou this nation's prayer. Though we be blind
Because of tears that rise, thou seest all

Who suffer here, Thou answerest those who call.
With thy strong arm sustain that lonely one,
That she, with us, may say, "Thy will be done."
Donald D. Donnan.

FAREWELL.

We mourn for the lov'd and the lost, but our mourning
Is edg'd as the storm-cloud is edg'd by the sun,
As he sinks to his rest through the glory adorning
The couch of the day, when his labor is done.

We weep for the brave and the true, but our weeping
Is not with the tears that we shed on a grave,
For we know, and the soul knows heaven has in keeping,
There can be no death for the true and the brave.

We pray, not for him, but for those left behind him;
For her who must mourn, for the love gone before;
But the soul which he lov'd, when it follows, shall find him,
As sure as love lives, to be parted no more.

We pray for these, Lord, and ourselves and the nation;
We pray we may keep what his wisdom has won;
That Thy pity may crown us with Thy consolation,
And faith in believing Thy will is well done.

Des Moines, Iowa.

Charles Gould Beede.

PRESIDENT ROOSEVELT TAKING OATH OF OFFICE IN WILCOX RESIDENCE, BUFFALO.