one of the queen's best ships, and he has his to settle with the dons, as Amyas has; so they growling together in a corner, while all the rest erry as the flies upon the vine above their heads.

BEN BOLT

THOMAS DUNN ENGLISH

N'T you remember sweet Alice, Ben Bolt-
Sweet Alice whose hair was so brown,
wept with delight when you gave her a smile,
I trembled with fear at your frown?

old churchyard in the valley, Ben Bolt,
corner obscure and alone,

have fitted a slab of the granite so gray,

d Alice lies under the stone.

r the hickory tree, Ben Bolt,

ich stood at the foot of the hill,

ther we've lain in the noonday shade, d listened to Appleton's mill.

mill wheel has fallen to pieces, Ben Bolt,

e rafters have tumbled in,

a quiet which crawls round the walls as you gaze

as followed the olden din.

ou mind of the cabin of logs, Ben Bolt,

t the edge of the pathless wood,

The tree you would seek for in vain;

And where once the lords of the forest waved
Are grass and the golden grain.

And don't you remember the school, Ben Bolt,
With the master so cruel and grim,

And the shaded nook in the running brook
Where the children went to swim?

Grass grows on the master's grave, Ben Bolt,
The spring of the brook is dry,

And of all the boys who were schoolmates then
There are only you and I.

There is change in the things I loved, Ben Bolt,
They have changed from the old to the new;
But I feel in the deeps of my spirit the truth,
There never was change in you.

Twelvemonths twenty have past, Ben Bolt,
Since first we were friends

yet I hail

Your presence a blessing, your friendship a truth, Ben Bolt of the salt-sea gale.

OUR HONORED DEAD

HENRY WARD BEECHER

OW bright are the honors which await those who, with sacred fortitude and patriotic patience, have red all things that they might save their nation from ion and from the power of corruption! The honored

dead! They that die for a good cause are redeemed from death; their names are gathered and garnered, their memory is precious; each place grows proud for those who were born there. There is in every village, and in every neighborhood, a glowing pride in its martyred heroes; tablets preserve their names; pious love shall renew the inscriptions as time and the unfeeling elements efface them. And the national festivals shall give multitudes of precious names to the orator's lips. Children shall grow up under more sacred inspirations, whose elder brothers, dying nobly for their country, left a name that honored and inspired all who bore it.

Oh, tell me not that they are dead, that generous host, that army of invisible heroes! Are they dead that yet speak louder than we can speak, and a more universal language? Are they dead that yet act? Are they dead that yet move upon society and inspire the people with noble motives and more heroic patriotism?

Ye that mourn, let gladness mingle with your tears; he was your son, but now he is the nation's; he made your household bright, now his example inspires a thousand households; dear to his brothers and sisters, he is now brother to every generous youth in the land; before, he was narrowed, appropriated, shut up to you, now he is augmented, set free, and given to all; before he was yours, now he is ours; he has died to the family that he might live to the nation.

O mother of lost children! Sit not in darkness, nor sorrow for those whom a nation honors. O mourners of the early dead! They shall live again, and live forever; your sorrows are our gladness; the nation lives because you gave

it men that loved it better than their lives. And when the nation shall sit in unsullied garments of liberty, with justice upon her forehead, love in her eyes, and truth on her lips, she shall not forget those whose blood gave vital currents to her heart, and whose life given to her shall live with her life till time shall be no more.

Every mountain and hill shall have its treasured name, every river shall keep some solemn title, every valley and every lake shall cherish its honored register; and, till the mountains are worn out and the rivers forget to flow, till the clouds are weary of replenishing springs and the springs forget to gush and the rills to sing, shall their names be kept fresh with reverent honors which are inscribed upon the book of national remembrance.

SONG OF MARION'S MEN

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT

UR band is few, but true and tried,
Our leaders frank and bold;

The British soldier trembles,

When Marion's name is told.

Our fortress is the good greenwood,

Our tent the cypress tree;
We know the forest round us

As seamen know the sea.
We know its walls of thorny vines,

Its glades of reedy grass,

Its safe and silent islands

Within the dark morass.

Woe to the English soldiery

That little dread us near!
On them shall light at midnight
A strange and sudden fear:
When waking to their tents on fire
They grasp their arms in vain,
And they who stand to face us
Are beat to earth again;
And they who fly in terror deem

A mighty host behind,

And hear the tramp of thousands

Upon the hollow wind.

Then sweet the hour that brings release

From danger and from toil;

We talk the battle over,

And share the battle's spoil.

The woodland rings with laugh and shout,

As if a hunt were up,

And woodland flowers are gathered

To crown the soldier's cup.
With merry songs we mock the wind

That in the pine top grieves,
And slumber long and sweetly

On beds of oaken leaves.

Well knows the fair and friendly moon

The band that Marion leads

The glitter of their rifles,

The scampering of their steeds.

'Tis life to guide the fiery barb

Across the moonlit plain;