He heard the wind beat loud and free,
The gilded casement, sullenly
Falling away with mist and rain.
"But, oh, it's a weary thing
To wear a crown and be a king
Oh, for one golden hour and sweet,
To serve the king with willing feet!"
But he would sleep and from his heart
The jeweled, silken girdle loose,
And give it room to turn and choose

high?

Into the gilded chamber crept

A breath of summer, blown with rain And wild wet leaves against the pane. The royal sleeper smiled and slept.

"I thought that all things sweet were dead!"
They heard him say who came to wed
The crown again to the king's head.
ANONYMOUS.

KEYS.

ONG ago in old Granada, when the Moors

were forced to flee,

Each man locked his home behind him, taking in his flight the key.

Hopefully they watched and waited for the time to come when they

Should return from their long exile to those homes so far away.

But the mansions in Granada they had left in all their prime

Vanished, as the years rolled onward, 'neath the crumbling touch of Time.

Like the Moors, we all have dwellings where we vainly long to be,

And through all life's changing phases ever fast we hold the key.

Our fair country lies behind us; we are exiles, too, in truth.

For no more shall we behold her. Our Granada's name is Youth.

We have our delusive day-dreams, and rejoice when, now and then,

Some old heartstring stirs within us, and we feel our youth again.

"We are young!" we cry triumphant, thrilled with old-time joy and glee. Then the dream fades slowly, softly, leaving nothing but the key!

BESSIE CHANDLER.

THE CITY OF THE LIVING.

a long banished age, whose varied story No record has to-day,

So long ago expired its grief and glory,

There flourished far away,

And there they lived in happiness and pleasure,

And grew in power and pride, And did great deeds and laid up stores of treasure,

And never any died.

And many years rolled on and saw them striving

With unabated breath;

And other years still found and left them living,

And gave no hope of death.

Yet listen, hapless soul whom angels pity, Craving a boon like this;

Grew weary of their bliss.

One and another who had been concealing
The pain of life's long thrall,
Forsook their pleasant faces and came steal-
ing

Outside the city's wall.

Craving with wish that brooked no more denying,

So long had it been crossed,

The blessed possibility of dying

The treasure they had lost!

Daily the current of rest-seeking mortals
Swelled to a broader tide,
'Till none were left within the city's portals,
And graves grew green outside.

Would it be worth the having or the giving,
The boon of endless breath?
Ah, for the weariness that comes of living
There is no cure but death!

Strange were the sights she saw across the way

A little child had died some days beforeAnd as she watched, amid the silence hushed, Some carried flowers, some a casket bore. The little watcher at the garden gate

Grew tearful, hers such thoughts and wonderings were,

Till said the nurse: "Come here, dear child. Weep not.

We all must go. "Tis God has sent for her."

"If He should send for me"-thus spoke the child

"I'll have to tell the angel, 'Do not wait. Though God has sent for me, I cannot come; I never go beyond the garden gate.'" KATHARINE MCDOWELL RICE.

"Tis hard to plant in spring and never reap The Autumn yield;

"Tis hard to till, and when 'tis tilled to weep O'er fruitless field.

And so I cry a weak and human cry,
So heart oppressed;

And so I sigh a weak and human sigh,
For rest-for rest.

My way has wound across the desert years,
And cares infest

My path, and through the flowing of hot tears I pine for rest.

And I am restless still; 'twill soon be o'er; For, down the West

Life's sun is setting, and I see the shore

Where I shall rest.

ABRAM J. RYAN. (Father Ryan.)

THE WORLD GOES UP AND THE WORLD GOES DOWN.

HE world goes up and the world goes down,

And the sunshine follows the rain; And yesterday's sneer and yesterday's frown Can never come over again,

Sweet wife, can never come over again

For woman is warm, though man may be cold,
And the night will hallow the day;
Till the heart which at even was weary and
old,

Can rise in the morning gay,

Sweet wife, can rise in the morning gay. CHARLES KINGSLEY.

SONG "WHEN THE DIMPLED WATER SLIPPETH."

(From "Afternoon at a Parsonage.") THEN the dimpled water slippeth,

W Full of laughter, on its way,

And her wing the wagtail dippeth,
Running by the brink at play;
When the poplar leaves a-tremble
Turn their edges to the light,
And the far-up clouds resemble

Veils of gauze most clear and white;
And the sunbeams fall and flutter
Woodland moss and branches brown,

And the glossy finches chatter

Up and down, up and down; Though the heart be not attending, Having music of her own,

On the grass, through meadows wending, It is sweet to walk alone.

When the falling waters utter

Something mournful on their way, And departing swallows flutter, Taking leave of bank and brae; When the chaffinch idly sitteth

With her mate upon the sheaves, And the wistful robin flitteth

Over beds of yellow leaves;

When the clouds like ghosts that ponder Evil fate, float by and frown,

And the listless wind doth wander

Up and down, up and down; Though the heart be not attending, Having sorrows of her own,

Through the fields and fallows wending, It is sad to walk alone.

JEAN INGELOW.