III.

And because I said

The grass has been greening above his head
Two summers and o'er, shall I think, therefore,
That smile can ne'er be kindled more?

-That the grave could hold it, that cannot hold
Captive one straggling gleam of gold?
-That it's prisoned away in ashen'd clay,
As centuried sunbeams are to-day

'Neath fathoms of blacken'd strata? No!
Can essence immortal perish so?
When clouds have gathered betwixt the star
And the vision that watches it blazing far

In limitless ether, shall the eye

Drop earthward, and lips that are faithless, sigh, -"Ah me! for the mist, the murk, the rain!

I never shall find my star again:"
While to spirits that come and go its shine
Has never before seemed so divine?

-Well, that is the way

With the smile I was telling you of to-day.

Edna Dean Proetõr.

FORWARD!

Dreamer, waiting for darkness with sorrowful, drooping eyes, Linger not in the valley, bemoaning the day that is done! Climb the eastern mountains and welcome the rosy skiesNever yet was the setting so fair as the rising sun!

Dear is the past; its treasures we hold in our hearts for aye; Woe to the hand that would scatter one wreath of its garnered flowers;

But larger blessing and honor will come with the waking day— Hail, then, To-morrow, nor tarry with Yesterday's ghostly hours!

Mark how the summers hasten through blossoming fields of June

To the purple lanes of the vintage and levels of golden corn; "Splendors of life I lavish," runs nature's exultant rune, "For myriads press to follow, and the rarest are yet unborn.”

Think how eager the earth is, and every star that shines,

To circle the grander spaces about God's throne that be; Never the least moon loiters nor the largest sun declinesForward they roll forever those glorious depths to see.

Dreamer, waiting for darkness with sorrowful, drooping eyes,
Summers and suns go gladly, and wherefore dost thou repine?
Climb the hills of morning and welcome the rosy skies—
The joy of the boundless future—nay, God himself is thine!

MOSCOW BELLS.

That distant chime! As soft it swells,

What memories o'er me steal!

Again I hear the Moscow bells
Across the moorland peal!

The bells that rock the Kremlin tower
Like a strong wind, to and fro,—
Silver-sweet in its topmost bower,

And the thunder's boom below.

They say that oft at Easter dawn
When all the world is fair,

God's angels out of heaven are drawn

To list the music there.

And while the rose-clouds with the breeze

Drift onward,—like a dream,
High in the ether's pearly seas
Their radiant faces gleam.

O when some Merlin with his spells
A new delight would bring,
Say: I will hear the Moscow bells
Across the moorland ring!

The bells that rock the Kremlin tower
Like a strong wind, to and fro,-
Silver-sweet in its topmost bower,
And the thunder's boom below!

EL MAHDI TO THE TRIBES OF THE SOUDAN.

I have heard the voice of the Lord

As the Prophet heard of old;
For me have the blessed angels

The book of Fate unrolled;
Gabriel, holiest, highest,

Flashed to my cave from the sky,

And cried, as the dawn illumined the east,
Wake! for the end is nigh!

Speed! for 'tis thine to save the saints,
And their proud oppressors slay,
And to fill the earth with righteousness
Before the Judgment Day."

Then he was gone as the lightning goes;
And my heart leapt up as flame;
And forth I rushed to the Holy War
For the glory of Allah's name;
And rippling river, and rustling reeds,

And the wind of the desert sighing,
Echoed his cry as I passed them by,
"Speed! for the hours are flying!"
The sunbeams shone, like lances keen,
Across the Meccan plain;

The roar of hosts was in my ears,
Their fury in my brain;

And I vowed to the God of the Faithful
His Prophet alone should reign!

Now, who is on the side of God
To fight this fight with me-
To break the ranks of the Infidels
And hurl them back to the sea,

And all this tortured, trampled land
From greed and spoil to free?
Who yearns for bliss in Paradise?
Who fears eternal flame?

Let him follow me to the Holy War
For the glory of Allah's name!
Leave your flocks on the grassy hills
Of cool Atbara's stream;

Under the palms by the lonely wells
No more at noontide dream;
From Nile's fair groves and uplands,
From meadow and marsh and mere,
Throng to the Crescent banner

With lance, and shield, and spear!
Come on your flying stallions

From lordly Darfur's side;
Bold from Sahara's burning depths

On your swift camels ride;
The sun by day shall bid you speed,

By night each guiding star,

Through the thorny wastes of Kordofan,

The wide plains of Sennaar! And from Fez and far Morocco;

From Yemen and Hejaz:

For round the world to the Faithful

This fire of God shall blaze

And from the realms of the Indian Sea,

And isles of spice and balm,

Shall a thousand thousand hither haste

For the glory of Islam!

And as in the Valley of Bedr,

When the Moslems charged the foe, The angels stooped to the stormy pass And laid the faithless low