Re-gave the swords, but not the hand that drew Long, but not loud, the droning wheel went on, Breathed through her lips a sad and tremulous tune. ENDURANCE How much the heart may bear, and yet not break! I question much if any pain or ache Of soul or body brings our end more nigh : We shrink and shudder at the surgeon's knife, We see a sorrow rising in our way, And try to flee from the approaching ill; We wind our life about another life; Anon it faints and fails in deathly strife, Leaving us stunned and stricken and alone; Behold, we live through all things,— famine, thirst, All woe and sorrow; life inflicts its worst ELIZABETH AKERS ALLEN (FLORENCE PERCY). OUTGROWN NAY, you wrong her, my friend, she's not fickle; her love she has simply outgrown : One can read the whole matter, translating her heart by the light of one's own. Can you bear me to talk with you frankly? There is much that my heart would say; And you know we were children together, have quarrelled and "made up "in play. And so, for the sake of old friendship, I venture to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly, as I might in our earlier youth. Five summers ago, when you wooed her, you stood on the selfsame plane, Face to face, heart to heart, never dreaming your souls should be parted again. She loved you at that time entirely, in the bloom of her life's early May; And it is not her fault, I repeat it, that she does not love you to-day. Nature never stands still, nor souls either: they ever go up or go down; And hers has been steadily soaring — but how has it been with your own? She has struggled and yearned and aspired, grown purer and wiser each year: The stars are not farther above you in yon luminous atmo sphere ! For she whom you crowned with fresh roses, down yonder, five summers ago, Has learned that the first of our duties to God and ourselves is to grow. Her eyes they are sweeter and calmer: but their vision is clearer as well; Her voice has a tenderer cadence, but is pure as a silver bell. Her face has the look worn by those who with God and his angels have talked : The white robes she wears are less white than the spirits with whom she has walked. And you? Have you aimed at the highest? Have you, too, aspired and prayed? Have you looked upon evil unsullied? Have you conquered it undismayed? Have you, too, grown purer and wiser, as the months and the years have rolled on ? Did you meet her this morning rejoicing in the triumph of vic tory won ? Nay, hear me! The truth cannot harm you. her presence you stood When to-day in Was the hand that you gave her as white and clean as that of her womanhood? Go measure yourself by her standard; look back on the years that have fled : Then ask, if you need, why she tells you that the love of her girlhood is dead. She cannot look down to her lover her love, like her soul, aspires; He must stand by her side, or above her, who would kindle its holy fires. Now farewell! For the sake of old friendship I have ventured to tell you the truth, As plainly, perhaps, and as bluntly as I might in our earlier youth. JULIA C. R. Dorr. THE PENITENT ST. AGNES' Eve,- ah, bitter chill it was! The hare limped trembling through the frozen grass, Numb were the beadsman's fingers while he told Like pious incense from a censer old, Seemed taking flight for heaven without a death, Past the sweet Virgin's picture, while his prayer he saith. His prayer he saith, this patient, holy man ; The sculptured dead on each side seemed to freeze, To think how they may ache in icy hoods and mails. Northward he turneth through a little door, JOHN KEATS (Eve of St. Agnes). THE AIM OF LIFE We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths; We should count time by heart-throbs. He most lives PHILIP JAMES BAILEY (Festus). FAME WHAT shall I do lest life in silence pass? And never prompt the bray of noisy brass, Remember aye the ocean deeps are mute; The shallows roar ; Worth is the ocean, fame is but the bruit Along the shore. What shall I do to be forever known? This did full many who yet slept unknown. Think'st thou, perchance, that they remain unknown By angel-trumps in heaven their praise is blown,— What shall I do to gain eternal life? The simple dues with which each day is rife! (From the German of Schiller.) MOTHER, HOME, HEAVEN THREE words fall sweetly on my soul Dear Mother! ne'er shall I forget Thy brow, thine eye, thy pleasant smile! And like a bird that from the flowers, Turns back in childhood's Home to rest; And while to one engulfing grave, By time's swift tide we 're driven, WILLIAM GOLDSMITH BROWN. THE END OF THE PLAY --- THE play is done, the curtain drops, A moment yet the actor stops, And looks around, to say farewell. |