JULIUS CAESAR.

WHEN for the betterment of all the earth
A conquest has been made, Philanthropy
Doth clothe ambition with a heavenly birth.
And thou, imperial Cæsar, unto thee
Who 'neath the cry of usurpation died,
May this ascription justly be applied:

Thou wast ambitious, but the Cassius dart
Was venomed by an envious, jealous heart.
Though Brutus dreamed he struck for liberty,
The hand of treachery is always black,
And vengeance shadows the assassin's track;
The bold alone hew pathways for the free.

Thy eagles of old Rome reached loftiest flight
In penetrating the surrounding night.
With thee her art first crossed the Rubicon,

With thy ensanguined banners cut the way, And in earth's darkest corners waked the day, To pour the light of her effulgent sun.

Thy plowshares cut in crimson the green sod, To open fallow for the Son of God. Unconsciously, thy heaven-directed hand Was great in impulse for the human race, And all along thy history we trace The flaming pathway of Divine command.

ABRAHAM LINCOLN.

ONE name to shine, one self-illumined star,

So bright that shadows marked its shades on earth,

So great that heaven heralded its birth, So lofty poised where suns and planets are, So would we shrine thee, Lincoln, in our hearts, Thou hast become so much of all our parts. Salvator, justly named. When treason strode So proudly forth to pluck away our stars, Thy firm impression's challenge barred the road, Calling "thy boys" to battle and to scars. It was enough. The cup of triumph filled, Was brimming at thy lips, and thou wast killed.

Killed in the fullness of thy charity,

No honor could be added to thy name, The very capstone of the nation's fame, A nation with thy passing fully free!

That plain sad face and those prophetic eyes Could hardly reached their ceasing with surprise. The heaven-extended warm right hand of God

Had held thine own through all the nation's strife.

Thy patient vigil and thy ceaseless plod

The Norsemen, on the North Atlantic Wave,
Columbus, passing out in unknown seas,
DeSoto, gaining but an unknown grave,
The hardy Pilgrims, on their bended knees,

The Argonauts, upon the Western slope,

These are the souls no human praise can reach. Each, in his turn, gave empire back to hope, And all are greater than the gift of speech. No pen can luster their unfading claim,

No cenotaph do honor to their dust; These are crown jewels on the brow of Fame; Their conquest is supreme, their laurels ever just. -Ibid.

FAITH.

Not every eye turned upward can behold
The face that faith alone shapes into form;
Not every hand can touch the gates of gold

That outward swing in welcome from the storm. Yet is the "Abba Father" pendant from each

tongue,

And every soul a furnace for its fires;

And sacred is each song in earnest sung, When creature to Creator thus aspires.

-Ibid.

FATE.

We can not change

The current of our lives, and useless is the call On any but the hand of God.

-Ibid.

WILLIAM M. CRUTTENDEN.

HE late Mr. William M. Cruttenden, associate

T'editor of the Buffalo News from 1885 until the

time of his death, in 1893, did considerable poetical work worthy of preservation. Editor.

AND YET--

SWEET murmured music for my ear alone,

A hand's soft pressure, and a trustful glance
Of eyes that speak responsive to my own,
And in whose depth no shadowing doubt
supplants

Love-light of confidence. All this, and yet-
Hopes lit within me by those darted rays,
Scintillant with bright visions, are beset

By clouds of dark misgiving. Through the

maze

They shine a moment, flicker and go out.
Within, the cravings of a lonely heart,
Impassioned longings of a soul, devout

In worship of God's primal law-apart,
Alone, man should not live. All this, and yet-
What promise gives my heart of constancy?
What but an ill-assorting fate could set

Me warder of that young life's destiny, Pledgeless of fervent love not to betray

The trust? Castles in Spain reared in the dust Of castles crumbled do in time give way,

Mined by these questionings of self-distrust. Within my heart they rise in volumed swell, Like mutterings of sedition in a mob, Threatful of danger; till some potent spell Check not alone outbursts of rage, but rob Their spirits e'en of brooding discontent. And I, I lack such spell! Nor soft caress

Can banish doubt, nor glancing eye prevent. Thus still I seek no gently whispered "Yes.”

SINGLE POEMS.

IN HIS NAME.

PRINCESSES are they of a royal line?

Soft clad in purple? Nay, not so, not so; The heirs of one whose kingdom is divine, They walk in white, and meekly, as they go, Whose robes of scarlet have been made like

snow.

Princesses still, in ermine, white like wool,

Cleansed by the King's own touch from spot or stain;

113

Emptied of self; of His own life so full
That, overflowing on a world in pain,
They bless and serve, and in their service reign.

For them the place of honor at the feast?
And close at His right hand the highest seat?
Nay; 'mong His little ones to be the least,
To feed His hungry souls their bread and meat,
And theirs the lowliest place at His dear feet.

Swift from their clasp should drop all scepters down,

To free their hands God's healing cups to bear; Swift from their brows lift e'en a royal crown, Lest His name in their foreheads written fair Be hidden, and some sad soul miss it there.

Their joy should be to bear His cross and shame;
Their cure to pour for others' wounds a balm;
Their rest to labor grandly “In His Name;"

To bring troubled souls His blessèd calm;
To change earth's cries of anguish to a psalm.

How shall we know them if their lips are dumb? If lives are eloquent with deeds that sing: Along their track His kingdom swift shall come ! Where'er they pass, new hopes be blossoming, And new souls find the Father in the King. ELIZABETH LOWE DICKINSON.

ANNIE LAURIE.

MAXWELTON banks are bonnie, Where early fa's the dew; Where me and Annie Laurie

Made up the promise true, Made up the promise true; And never forget will I; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and die.

She's backit like the peacock,
She's breistit like the swan,
Sh's jimp about the middle,

Her waist ye weel micht span, Her waist ye weel micht span; And she has a rolling eye; And for bonnie Annie Laurie I'll lay me down and die.

ASK ME NO MORE.

Ask me no more: the moon may draw the sea; The cloud may stoop from heaven and take the shape,

With fold to fold, of mountain or of cape;

But, oh too fond, when have I answer'd thee? Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: what answer should I give?
I love not hollow cheek or faded eye;
Yet, O my friend, I will not have thee die!
Ask me no more, lest I should bid thee live;
Ask me no more.

Ask me no more: thy fate and mine are seal'd.
I strove against the stream, and all in vain.
Let the great river take me to the main.
No more, dear love, for at a touch I yield;
Ask me no more!

ALFRED TENNYSON.

TOO LATE.

COULD ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,

I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

Never a scornful word should grieve ye, I'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do, Sweet as your smile on me shone ever, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

O, to call back the days that are not!

My eyes were blinded, your words were few: Do you know the truth now up in heaven, Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

I never was worthy of you, Douglas,
Not half worthy the like of you:

Now all men beside seem to me like shadows!
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.

Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew,
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK.

THE LARK.

THOU only bird that singest as thou flyest, Heaven-mounting lark, that measurest with thy wing

The airy zones, till thou art lost in highest!

Upon the branch the laughing thrushes cling, About her home the humble linnet wheels, Around the tower the gathered starlings swing; These mix their songs and weave their figured reel.

Thou risest in thy lonely joy away

From the first rapturous note that from thee steals,
Quick, quick and quicker, till the exalted lay
Is steadied in the golden breadths of light,
'Mid mildest clouds that bid thy pinions stay.

The heavens that give would yet sustain thy

flight,

And o'er the earth for ever cast thy voice,

If but to gain were still to keep the height.

But soon thou sinkest on the fluttering poise Of the same wings that soared; soon ceasest thou The song that grew invisible with joys.

Love bids thy fall begin; and thou art now Dropped back to earth, and of the earth again, Because that love hath made thy heart to bow. Thou hast thy mate, thy nest on lowly plain; Thy timid heart by law ineffable

Is drawn from the high heavens where thou shouldst reign;

Earth summons thee by her most tender spell; For thee there is a silence and a song: Thy silence in the shadowy earth must dwell, Thou in the bright heavens can not be long. And best to thee those fates may I compare Where weakness strives to answer bidding strong. RICHARD WATSON DIXON.

SOME MOTHER'S CHILD.

AT home or away, in the alley or street,
Wherever I chance in this wide world to meet
A girl that is thoughtless, or a boy that is wild,
My heart echoes softly:"Tis some mother's child.”

And when I see those o'er whom long years have rolled,

Whose hearts have grown hardened, whose spirits are cold,

Be it woman all fallen, or man all defiled,

A voice whispers sadly: "Ah! some mother's child."

No matter how far from the right she hath strayed;
No matter what inroads dishonor hath made;
No matter what elements cankered the pearl,
Though tarnished and sullied, she is some mother's
girl.

No matter how wayward his footsteps have been;
No matter how deep he is sunken in sin;
No matter how low is his standard of joy,
Though guilty and loathsome, he is some mother's
boy.

FRANCIS L. KEELER.

An' 'fo' I could gether my senses,
Dat gal she was dancin' a jig!
She des had been makin' pertences!
An' here I had clumb over fences
Wid her-an' she weighed like a pig.

Of co'se dis was whiles we was chillen,
But when we growed up it was wuss;
De way she'd pervoke me was killin',
'Tell sometimes I'd feel like a villain,

An', Lord, but I'd in'ardly cuss!

She'd ax me ter tote 'er pail for 'er,
An' walk by my side, an' she'd laugh,
An' tell me some joy or some sorrer
Dat fretted 'er min'. Den to-morrer
She'd git me ter hol' off de calf

While Pete, a big boy dat I hated,

Would come an' stan' clost by 'er side An' stiddy de cow, while I waited "Way off 'crost de yard, so frustrated Dat some days I purty nigh cried.

Dey wasn't no principle in 'er,

Come down ter sech doin's as dat, "Caze Pete was a miser'ble sinner, An' 'cep' I was littler an' thinner,

Some days I'd o' laid 'im out flat!

'Well, sir, dat's de way Winnie acted—

She fooled me straight thoo all my life; An' when she had got me clair 'stracted, 'Tell I run at Pete, an' got whackted,

She turned roun', an'-well, she's my wife!

My 'spe'unce wid Peter was bitter,
But sometimes it pays ter get hit;

"Caze Winnie's a curious critter,
An' 'cep' I had resked all ter git 'er,
I'd be holdin' off de calf yit.

RUTH MCENERY STUART. -Harper's Weekly, December 23, 1893.

ERIN---1894

'GREEN-ROBED weeping Niobe of nations, Thralled a victim to a foreign crown, Lifting fettered hands in supplications

Vain to alien powers that smite thee down, Sad thy hapless lot and keen thy sorrow, Dark thy firmament with clouds of grief! Hidden is the longed-for happy morrow That shall bring to thee a sweet relief!

Mother fair of sons of genius royal,

Land of light, of mirth, of wit and song,
Isle where Love is king and all are loyal,
Cheated, scourged and chained in galling wrong!
Home of sons who o'er the earth are scattered,
Sons whose hearts are aching aye for thee,
Sons who weep to see thy Green Flag tattered
Dipped to flaunting rag from o'er the sea!

Soil of Celts since unremembered ages,
Yielding wealth to greedy alien hands!
Sons of kings who slave, whose only wages
Famine is, or flight to foreign lands!
Silent hang thy harps on woful willows,
Fades thy shamrock in deserted dells,
And from foe-wrecked homes and joyless pillows
Ere thy wail of lamentation swells!

Yet the longest night must end in morning,
Deepest gloom precedes the brightest light.
See! the sun of hope, thy hills adorning,

Waves his flame-brand o'er thy starless night!
Heartless Albin's noblest son is shaming
Albin's lesser sons to right thy wrong,
Striking, in his manly anger flaming,
Blows for justice grand and strong!

Erin's noblest sons, clear-eyed, defiant,
Pleading tireless for eternal right,
Drawing dauntless sword upon the giant,
Boldly strike at lawless, heartless might!
Once again shall Erin, now so stricken,

Rise rejoicing from her gloom and woe!
Round her head no clouds of grief will thicken
When her sod no foreign foot doth know!

Ever patient in thy deep dejection,

Upward cast to-day thy saddened eyes. Courage! Erin nears her resurrection! Justice wins the fight! Injustice flies! In the cheerful coming years and ages

Erin shall take rank among the nations, And her daughters, minstrels, sons and sages Swell the chorus of their jubilations! HENRY A. VANFREDEnberg.

FRIENDS.

WE'RE friends; what makes you think we're not?

We get along first-rate.

You don't go'n think just coz we've got
Nose-bleeds when we separate

We are n't best friends, are n't Tom and I?
Why, don't you see, Ma, that's jnst why!

When Tom and I meet after school,

"'ll you play leap-frog?" says I. He answers, casual-like and cool,