Speak, History! Who are Life's vie tors? Unroll thy long annals and

say,

Are they those whom the world called the victors who won the success of a day?

The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans, who fell at Thermopyla's tryst,

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges or Socrates? Pilate or Christ?

-William Wetmore Story.

D

LOVE'S PRAYER

EAR LORD! Kind Lord!
Gracious Lord! I pray
Thou wilt look on all I love,

Tenderly to-day!

Weed their hearts of weari

ness;

Scatter every care,

Down a wake of angel wings
Winnowing the air.

Bring unto the sorrowing
All release from pain;
Let the lips of laughter
Overflow again;
And with all the needy

O divide, I pray,

This vast treasure of content

That is mine to-day!

-James Whitcomb Riley.

THE HAPPIEST HEART

W

HO drive the horses of the

sun

Shall lord it but a day; Better the lowly deed were

done,

And kept the humble way.

The rust will find the sword of fame,
The dust will hide the crown;
Ay, none shall nail so high his name
Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast

That found the common daylight sweet,

And left to Heaven the rest.

-John Vance Cheney.

THE SLEEP

He giveth His beloved sleep.-Psalm cxxvii., 2.

F all the thoughts of God

that are

Borne inward unto souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music
deep,

Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this:
"He giveth His beloved-sleep?"

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,

The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep, The patriot's voice to teach and rouse, The monarch's crown to light the brows? He giveth His beloved-sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep,
And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth His beloved-sleep.

66

Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes

say,

Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids

creep:

But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His belovèd-sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved-sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and

reap:

More softly than the dew is shed,

Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth His beloved-sleep.