Yea, for the ravelled night is round the lands,
And sick are we of all the imperial story.

The tramp of power, and its long trail of pain;
The mighty brows in meanest arts grown hoary;
The mighty hands,

That in the dear, affronted name of Peace

Bind down a people to be racked and slain;
The emulous armies waxing without cease,
All-puissant all in vain;

The facts and leagues to murder by delays,

And the dumb throngs that on the deaf throne's gaze;

The common, loveless lust of territory;

The lips that only babble of their mart,

While to the night the shrieking hamlets blaze;

The bought allegiance, and the purchased praise
False honor, and shameful glory -

Of all the evil whereof this is part,

How weary is our heart,

How weary is our heart these many days!

- The Year of Shame.

ENGLAND TO AMERICA.

O towering daughter, Titan of the West,
Behind a thousand leagues of foam secure;
Thou toward whom our inward heart is pure
Of ill intent; although thou threatenest
With most unfilial hand thy mother's breast,
Not for one breathing-space may earth endure
The thought of war's intolerable cure

For such vague pains as vex to-day thy rest!

But if thou hast more strength than thou canst spend In tasks of peace, and find'st her yoke too tame,

Help us to smite the cruel, to befriend

The succorless, and put the false to shame.
So shall the ages laud thee, and thy name
Be lovely among nations to the end.

U OF IL LB.

66

PRELUDE TO THE HYMN TO THE SEA."

Grant, O regal in bounty, a subtle and delicate largess; Grant an ethereal alms out of the wealth of thy soul; Suffer a tarrying minstrel who finds and fashions his numbers,

Who, from the commune of air, cages the volatile song, Here to capture and prison some fugitive breath of thy

descant,

Thine and his own as thy roar lisped on the lips of a shell; Now while the vernal impulsion makes lyrical all that hath language,

While, through the veins of the Earth, riots the ichor of Spring,

While, with throes, with raptures, with loosing of bonds, with unsealings,

Arrowy pangs of delight, piercing the core of the world, Tremors and coy unfoldings, reluctances, sweet agita

tions,

Youth, irrepressibly fair, wakes like a wondering rose.

THE SCOTT MONUMENT.

Here sits he throned, where men and gods behold
His domelike brow a good man simply great;
Here in this highway proud, that arrow-straight
Cleaves at one stroke the new world from the old.
On this side, Commerce, Fashion, Progress, Gold;
On that, the Castle Hill, the Canongate,
A thousand years of war and love and hate
There palpably upstan ling fierce and bold.

Here sits he throned; beneath him, full and fast,
The tides of Modern Life impetuous run.
O Scotland, was it well and meetly done?
For see! he sits with back turned on the Past-
He whose imperial edict bade it last

While yon gray ramparts kindle to the sun.

SONG FROM AN UNFINISHED DRAMA.

Hope, the great explorer,

Love whom none can bind,
Youth that looks before her,
Age that looks behind,
Joy with brow like Summer's,
Care with wintry pate,
Masquers are and mummers
At life's gate.

Pow'r with narrow forehead,
Wealth with niggard palm,
Wisdom old, whose hoar head
Vaunts a barren calm;
Haughty overcomers,

In their pomp and state; -
Masquers all and mummers
At death's gate!

ATTERSON, HENRY, an American orator and journalist; born at Washington, D. C., February 16, 1840. He became editor of the Washington Democratic Review, in 1858, and of the Nashville Republican-Banner in 1861. During the war he served as a staff-officer and as chief of scouts in the Confederate army. In 1868 he founded the Louisville Courier-Journal, where he soon became a national figure in American journalism. He sat for a short time (1876-77) in Congress to fill a vacancy. He has been a prolific contributor to periodicals, and is author of Oddities of Southern Life and Character (1882); History of the Spanish-American War