Rough culture, but such trees large | And with the martyr's crown crownest a fruit may bear, If but their stocks be of right girth and grain. So he grew up, a destined work to do, And lived to do it; four long-suffering years' Ill-fate, ill-feeling, ill-report, lived through, And then he heard the hisses change to cheers. life With much to praise, little to be forgiven. MRS. MILES. HYMN TO CHRIST. O Thou who art our life, Be with us through the strife; Raise thou our eyes above A deed accurst! Strokes have been struck | Beam, like a bow of promise, through the before By the assassin's hand, whereof men doubt If more of horror or disgrace they bore; But thy foul crime, like Cain's, stands darkly out. Vile hand, that brandest murder on a strife, striven; cloud. E'en through the awful gloom, That light of love our guiding star shall Our spirits shall not dread Whate'er its grounds, stoutly and nobly Friend! Guardian! Saviour! which doth lead to thee! F. M. FINCH. [U. s. A.] THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. By the flow of the inland river, From the silence of sorrowful hours So with an equal splendor So, when the summer calleth, On forest and field of grain With an equal murmur falleth The cooling drip of the rain;Under the sod and the dew, Waiting the judgment day;Wet with the rain, the Blue; Wet with the rain, the Gray. Sadly, but not with upbraiding, In the storm of the years that are fading, No more shall the war-cry sever, Or the winding rivers be red; They banish our anger forever When they laurel the graves of our dead!! Sends scorn, and offers insult to our taste.* Those faces brighten from the years A city of the world's gray prime, The Arachne-threads of Purpose stream From rose to red the level heaven burned; Then sudden, as if a sword fell from on high, A blade of gold flashed on the horizon's rim. THE SOWER. I. A SOWER went forth to sow, Thus did that Sower sow; II. It was an autumn day 329 The song of a sweet-voiced bird? And a sea of sunlight flowed, On my face I fell down there; I said: O God, thou art wise! WILLIAM BELL SCOTT. THE DANCE. (From "THE WITCH'S BALLAD."} O, I HAE come from far away, From a warm land far away, And I hae been to yon town, To try my luck in yon town: Nort, and Mysie, Elspie too, Right braw we were to pass the gate Wi' gowden clasps on girdles blue. Mysie smiled wi' miming mouth, Innocent mouth, miming mouth; Elspie wore her scarlet gown, Nort's gray eyes were unco' gleg, My Castile comb was like a crown. We walked abreast all up the street, Into the market up the street: Our hair wi' marygolds was wound, Our bodices wi' love-knots laced, Our merchandise wi' tansy bound. Nort had chickens, I had cocks, Gamesome cocks, loud-crowing cocks; Mysie ducks, and Elspie drakes. For a wee groat or a pound, We lost nae time wi' gives and takes. |