For men may come and men may go,

But I go on forever.

Alfred Tennyson.

OH, SAY, WHAT IS TRUTH?

Oh, say, what is truth? 'Tis the fairest gem
That the riches of worlds can produce;
And priceless the value of truth will be, when
The proud monarch's costliest diadem

Is counted but dross and refuse.

Yes, say, what is truth? 'Tis the brightest prize
To which mortals or gods can aspire;

Go search in the depths where it glittering lies,
Or ascend in pursuit to the loftiest skies;

'Tis an aim for the noblest desire.

The sceptre may fall from the despot's grasp,
When with winds of stern justice he copes,
But the pillar of truth will endure to the last,
And its firm-rooted bulwarks outstand the rude blast
And the wreck of the fell tyrant's hopes.

Then, say, what is truth? 'Tis the last and the first,
For the limits of time it steps o'er;

Though the heavens depart, and the earth's fountains

burst,

Truth, the sum of existence, will weather the worst,

Eternal, unchanged, evermore.

John Jaques.

CASEY AT THE BAT

It looked extremely rocky for the Mudville nine that day; The score stood two to four, with but an inning left to

play.

So, when Cooney died at second, and Burrows did the

same,

A pallor wreathed the features of the patrons of the

game.

A straggling few got up to go, leaving there the rest, With that hope which springs eternal within the human

breast,

For they thought, "if only Casey could get a whack at that,"

They'd put up even money now, with Casey at the bat.

But Flynn preceded Casey, and likewise so did Blake, And the former was a puddin', and the latter was a fake, So on that stricken multitude a deathlike silence sat, For there seemed but little chance of Casey's getting to the bat.

But Flynn let drive a "single," to the wonderment of all, And the much-despised Blakey "tore the cover off the ball."

And when the dust had lifted, and they saw what had occurred,

There was Blakey safe at second, and Flynn a-hugging third.

Then, from the gladdened multitude went up a joyous

yell,

It rumbled in the mountain-tops, it rattled in the dell; It struck upon the hillside and rebounded on the flat; For Casey, mighty Casey, was advancing to the bat.

There was ease in Casey's manner, as he stepped into his place;

There was pride in Casey's bearing, and a smile on Casey's face.

And when, responding to the cheers, he lightly doffed his hat,

No stranger in the crowd could doubt 'twas Casey at the bat.

Ten thousand eyes were on him as he rubbed his hands with dirt,

Five thousand tongues applauded when he wiped them on his shirt;

Then while the New York pitcher ground the ball into his hip,

Defiance gleamed in Casey's eye, a sneer curled Casey's lip.

And now the leather-covered sphere came hurling through the air,

And Casey stood a-watching it in haughty grandeur there.

Close by the sturdy batsman the ball unheeded sped"That ain't my style," said Casey. "Strike one," the umpire said.

From the benches, black with people, there went up a muffled roar,

Like the beating of storm waves on a stern and distant

shore.

"Kill him! Kill the umpire!" shouted someone on the

stand,

And it's likely they'd have killed him had not Casey raised a hand.

With a smile of Christian charity great Casey's visage

shone;

He stilled the rising tumult; he bade the game go on; He signaled to Sir Timothy, once more the spheroid flew; But Casey still ignored it, and the umpire said, "Strike two."

"Fraud!" cried the maddened thousands, and echo answered "Fraud!"

But one scornful look from Casey and the audience was

awed.

They saw his face grow stern and cold, they saw his muscles strain,

And they knew that Casey wouldn't let that ball go by again.

The sneer is gone from Casey's lip, his teeth are clenched in hate;

He pounds with cruel violence his bat upon the plate. And now the pitcher holds the ball, and now he lets it go, And now the air is shattered by the force of Casey's

blow.

Oh, somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright;

The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts

are light.

And somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout;

But there is no joy in Mudville-mighty Casey has

struck out.

Phineas Thayer.

DAVID'S LAMENT OVER ABSALOM

The king stood still

Till the last echo died; then, throwing off
The sackcloth from his brow, and laying back
The pall from the still features of his child,
He bowed his head upon him, and broke forth
In the resistless eloquence of woe:-

"Alas! my noble boy! that thou shouldst die!

Thou, who wert made so beautifully fair! That death should settle in thy glorious eye,

And leave his stillness in this clustering hair! How could he mark thee for the silent tomb, My proud boy, Absalom!

"Cold is thy brow, my son! and I am chill, As to my bosom I have tried to press thee. How was I wont to feel my pulses thrill,

Like a rich harp-string, yearning to caress thee,