Fate or Caprice may lead his feet

Ere that to-morrow come? men have been known

Lightly to turn the corner of a street,

And days have grown

To months, and months to lagging years,
Before they looked in loving eyes again.
Parting, at best, is underlaid with tears,
-With tears and pain.

Therefore, lest sudden death should come be

tween,

Or time, or distance, clasp with pressure true

The palm of him who goeth forth.
Fate goeth too!

Unseen

Yea, find thou alway time to say
Some earnest word betwixt the idle talk,
Lest with thee henceforth, night and day,

Regret should walk.

MARY EVELYN MOORE DAVIS.

THE TWO LESSONS.

LEARN, boy, from me what dwells in man alone,
Courage immortal, and the steadfast sway
Of patient toil, that glorifies the day.
What most ennobles life is all our own,

Yet not the whole of life; the fates atone

For what they give by what they keep away.

Learn thou from others all the triumphs gay That dwell in sunnier realms, to me unknown. Each soul imparts one lesson; each supplies One priceless secret that it holds within.

In your own heart-there only-stands the prize.

Foiled of all else, your own career you win.

We half command our fates; the rest but lies
In that last drop which unknown powers fling

in.

T. W. HIGGINSON.

TWO TRUTHS.

'DARLING," he said, “I never meant
To hurt you." And his eyes were wet.
"I would not hurt you for the world:
Am I to blame if I forget?"

"Forgive my selfish tears!" she cried,
"Forgive! I knew that it was not
Because you meant to hurt me, sweet,——
I knew it was that you forgot!"

But all the same, deep in her heart
Rankled this thought, and rankles yet:
When love is at its best one loves

So much that he cannot forget.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

CORONATION.

AT the king's gate the subtle noon
Wove filmy yellow nets of sun;
Into the drowsy snare too soon
The guards fell one by one.

Through the king's gate, unquestioned then, A beggar went, and laughed, "This brings Me chance, at last, to see if men

Fare better, being kings."

The king sat bowed beneath his crown,
Propping his face with listless hand;
Watching the hour-glass sifting down
Too slow its shining sand.

"Poor man, what wouldst thou have of me?"
The beggar turned, and pitying,
Replied, like one in dream, “Of thee,
Nothing. I want the king."

Uprose the king, and from his head

Shook off the crown and threw it by.

“O man, thou must have known," he said,

Through all the gates, unquestioned then,
Went king and beggar hand in hand.
Whispered the king, “ Shall I know when
Before his throne I stand ?"

The beggar laughed. Free winds in haste
Were wiping from the king's hot brow
The crimson lines the crown had traced.
"This is his presence now."

At the king's gate, the crafty noon
Unwove its yellow nets of sun;

Out of their sleep in terror soon
The guards waked one by one.

"Ho here! Ho there! Has no man seen
The king?" The cry ran to and fro;
Beggar and king, they laughed, I ween,
The laugh that free men know.

On the king's gate the moss grew gray;

The king came not. They called him dead; And made his eldest son one day

Slave in his father's stead.

HELEN HUNT JACKSON.

HYMN.

(Sung at the completion of the Concord Monument, April 19,

1836).

By the rude bridge that arched the flood,
Their flag to April's breeze unfurled,

Here once the embattled farmers stood,
And fired the shot heard round the world.

The foe long since in silence slept;

Alike the conqueror silent sleeps ;

And Time the ruined bridge has swept

Down the dark stream which seaward creeps.

On this green bank, by this soft stream,
We set to-day a votive stone;
That memory may their dead redeem,
When, like our sires, our sons are gone.

Spirit, that made those heroes dare

To die, or leave their children free,
Bid Time and Nature gently spare

The shaft we raise to them and thee.

RALPH WALDO EMERSON.

REVIVAL OF ROMANCE.

Too long, too long we keep the level plain,
The tiled, tame fields, the bending orchard

bough!

The byre, the barn, the threshing-floor, the

plow

Too long have been our theme and our re

frain!

Enough, my brothers, of this Doric strain!

Lift up your spirits, and record a vow

To gather laurel from the mountain's brow, And bring the era of rich verse again! Ye painters, paint great Nature at her heightSeas, forests, cliffs upreared in liquid air, And touch with glamour all things rough and crude.

And ye who fiction weave for our delight,

Give us brave men, and women good as fair—

And shame our hollow Sadducean mood!

EDITH M. THOMAS.