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fess to speak. They become indeed idols ( Edwla ), in

ειδωλα ) stead of media for revealing God. Full of peril is such a time, when holy aspirations are so wedded to the earth; fuller still is that which follows; for error, ever productive after its kind, here by the doubtful symbol propagates itself and men are drawn away from Christ by that which professes to declare Him.

But to this period succeeds another which contents itself with maintaining and employing these creations of preceding ages. And this it may do until all is lost; until the Divine Gift of the living Spirit is overlaid by these cumbrous embodiments of mingled truth and error; until formality and utter death settle over all things. Or it may be that at such a time, God's great mercy raises up some champions of His truth who shall boldly break in upon the charmed circle, dissolve at once the foul enchantment, and restore all the misshaped and monstrous images around them to the simplicity of their primeval forms.

And what, after such a time, is the attempt to recreate the outward forms of earlier, and it may be, darker days? What is it in any case but ignorantly to go against the universal law of being; and it may be, to bring back forms which have been at once the consequence and cause of former wanderings?

JUST FOR TO-DAY.

Let me both diligently work

And duly pray;
Let me be kind in word and deed

Just for to-day.

Let me be slow to do my will,

Prompt to obey;
Help me to sacrifice myself

Just for to-day.

Let me no wrong or idle word

Unthinking say —
Set thou thy seal upon my lips

Just for to-day.

So, for to-morrow and it's needs

I do not pray;
But keep me, guide me, hold me, Lord,

Just for to-day.

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ILCOX, EllA WHEELER, an American poet;

born at Johnstown Centre, Wis., about 1845.

She was educated at the University of Wisconsin. At an early age she began to write for newspapers and periodicals. She has published Drops of Water (1872); Maurine (1875); Shells (1883); Poems of Passion (1883); Mal Momlée, a novel (1885); Poems of Pleasure (1888); A Double Life, a novel (1891); How Salvator Won, a poem for recitation (1891); Sweet Danger, a novel (1892); The Beautiful Land of Nod (1892); Men, Women and Emotion, forty-five chapters of advice to married folks (1893) ; Song of the Sandwich, a comic poem (1893); Was it Suicide? a collection of stories (1896); A Woman of the World (1904).

LOVE'S COMING.

She had looked for his coming as warriors come,

With the clash of arms, and the bugle's call; But he came instead with a stealthy tread,

Which she did not hear at all.

She had thought how his armor would blaze in the sun,

As he rode like a prince to claim his bride ; In the sweet, dim light of the falling night

She found him at her side.

Vol. XXIV.-21

She had dreamed how the gaze of his strange, bold eye

Would wake her heart to a sudden glow; She found in his face the familiar grace

Of a friend she used to know.

She had dreamed how his coming would stir her soul,

As the ocean is stirred by the wild storm's strife; He brought her the balm of a heavenly calm,

And a peace which crowned her life.

OUR LIVES.

Our lives are songs. God writes the words,

And we set them to music at pleasure;
And the song grows glad, or sweet, or sad,

As we choose to fashion the measure.

We must write the music, whatever the song,

Whatever its rhyme or metre;
And if it is sad, we can make it glad,

Or if sweet, we can make it sweeter.

One has a song that is free and strong,

But the music he writes is minor;
And the sad, sad strain is replete with pain,

And the singer becomes a repiner.

And he thinks God gave him a dirge-like ray,

Nor knows that the words are cheery:
And the song seems lonely and solemn - only

Because the music is dreary.

And the song of another has through the words

An under current of sadness;
But he sets it to music of ringing chords,

And makes it a pæan of gladness.

So whether our songs are sad or not,

We can give the world more pleasure,
And better ourselves, by setting the words

To a glad, triumphant measure.

GHOSTS

There are ghosts in the room,
As I sit here alone, from the dark corners there

They come out of the gloom.
And they stand at my side, and they lean on my chair.

There's the ghost of a hope
That lighted my days with a fanciful glow.

In her hand is the rope
That strangled her life out. Hope was slain long ago.

But her ghost comes to-night
With its skeleton face, and expressionless eyes,

And it stands in the light,
And mocks me, and jeers me with sobs and with sighs.

There's the ghost of a joy,
A frail, fragile thing, and I prized it too much,

And the hands that destroy
Clasped it close, and it died at the withering touch.

There's the ghost of a love,
Born with joy, reared with Hope, died in pain and unrest,

But he towers above
All the others — this ghost: yet a ghost at the best

I am weary, and fain
Would forget all these dead: but the gibbering host

Make the struggle in vain.
In each shadowy corner, there lurketh a ghost.

W

ILDE, OSCAR O'FLAHERTIE Wills, an Irish

poet, dramatist and novelist; born at Dublin,

October 16, 1856; died at Paris, November 30, 1900. He was the son of Sir William Wilde, a man of great personal influence in Ireland during his life, an eminent ophthalmic and aural surgeon, possessing a European reputation in his profession and as an archæologist and man of letters. In 1853 Sir William was made Surgeon-Oculist in Ireland to the Queen, but though his abilities and usefulness in his profession were very great, his love was for the study of archæology. Mr. Wilde was constantly with his father and mother, always among grown-up persons, and, at eight years old, had heard every subject discussed and every creed defended and demolished at his father's dinner table, where were to be found not only the brilliant genius of Ireland, but also celebrities of Europe and America that visited Dublin. He went to no public school, but had tutors at home, and was given that finest of all educators, the best literature of the day. As a boy, also, Mr. Wilde traveled a great deal in France and Germany; he cared little for German literature, excepting only Heine and Goethe, but became passionately fond of the French characters and writings, which are pervaded by an enthusiasm having some kinship with that peculiar to the Irish nation. Before going to Oxford, Mr. Wilde went to Trinity College, Dublin, for a year, and there won the gold medal for Greek and a scholarship. He went to Magdalen College, Oxford, in 1874, where also he obtained the first scholarship. During the four years he was there, he took two first classes and took the Newdigate

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