So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain crown
The great procession swept.

Lo! when the warrior dieth,
His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed, and muffled drum,

Follow the funeral car. They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his masterless steed,
While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the land

Men lay the sage to rest,

And give the bard an honored place,

With costly marble dressed, In the greater minster transept, Where lights like glories fall,

And the choir sings, and the organ rings
Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warrior
That ever buckled sword;

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?
The hill-side for his pall;
To lie in state while angels wait,
With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in the grave,—

In that deep grave, without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again,-O wondrous thought!—
Before the judgment-day;

And stand, with glory wrapped around,
On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life,
With th' incarnate Son of God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land!
O dark Beth-peor's hill!
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath His mysteries of grace,—
Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him He loved so well.

C. F. ALEXANDER

TO WHOM WE SHALL GIVE THANKS.

A LITTLE boy had sought the pump,

From whence the sparkling water burst, And drank with eager joy the draught That kindly quenched his raging thirst; Then gracefully he touched his cap,— "I thank you, Mr. Pump," he said, "For this nice drink you've given me!" (This little boy had been well-bred.)

Then said the Pump: "My little man,
You're welcome to what I have done;
But I am not the one to thank,-

I only help the water run.”
"Oh, then," the little fellow said
(Polite he always meant to be),
"Cold Water, please accept my thanks;
You have been very kind to me."

"Ah!" said Cold Water, "don't thank me; Far up the hill-side lives the Spring That sends me forth, with generous hand, To gladden every living thing." "I'll thank the Spring, then," said the boy, And gracefully he bowed his head. “Oh, don't thank me, my little man,"

The Spring with silvery accents said.

"Oh, don't thank me,-for what am I,

Without the Dews and Summer Rain? Without their aid I ne'er could quench Your thirst, my little boy, again." "Oh, well, then," said the little boy, "I'll gladly thank the Rain and Dew." "Pray, don't thank us,-without the Sun. We could not fill one cup for

you."

'Then, Mr. Sun, ten thousand thanks For all that you have done for me." "Stop!" said the Sun, with blushing face; "My little fellow, don't thank me; 'Twas from the Ocean's mighty stores I drew the draught I gave to thee." "O Ocean, thanks!" then said the boy. It echoed back, "Not unto me,—

"Not unto me, but unto Him

Who formed the depths in which I lie,
Go, give thy thanks, my little boy,

To Him who will thy wants supply."
The boy took off his cap, and said,
In tones so gentle and subdued:
"O God! I thank thee for this gift;
Thou art the Giver of all good."

T

PAT'S EXCELSIOR.

WAS growing dark so terrible fasht,

Whin through a town up the mountain there pashed A broth of a boy, to his neck in the shnow;

As he walked, his shillelagh he swung to and fro,
Saying it's till the top I'm bound for to go-
Be jabers!

He looked mortial sad, and his eyes was as bright
As a fire of turf on a cowld winther night,
And niver a word that he said could ye tell,
As he opened his mouth and let out a yell,
It's up to the top of the mountain I'll go,
Onless covered up wid this bothersome shnow—
Be jabers!

Through the windows he saw as he traveled along
The light of a candle and fires so warm;

But a big chunk of ice hung over his head.
With a snivel and groan, by St. Patrick! he saiū,

It's up to the very tip-top I will rush,

And then if it falls it's not meself it'll crush-
Be jabers!

Whist a bit, said an ould man whose head was white
As the shnow that fell down on that miserable night,
Shure ye'll fall in the wather, me bit of a lad,
For the night is so dark and the walkin' is bad.
Bedad he'd not lisht to a word that was said,
go till the top, if he wint on his head-
Be jabers!

But he'd

A bright buxom young girl, such as like to be kissed,
Axed him couldn't he shtop and how could he resist?
So snapping his fingers, and winking his eye,
While smiling upon her he made this reply:
Faith, I meant to kape on till I got to this top,
But as yer shwate self has axed me, I may as well shtop-
Be jabers!

He shtopped all night, and shtopped all day,
And ye mus'n't be axin' whin he did go away,
For wouldn't he be a bastely gossoon

To be lavin' his darlint in the shwate honeymoon,
Whin the old man has praties enough and to spare,
Shure he,inoight as well stay, if he's comfortable there,-
Be jabers!

SPARTACUS TO THE GLADIATORS AT
CAPUA.

YE call me chief; and ye do well to call him chief who,

for twelve long years, has met upon the arena every shape of man or beast the broad Empire of Rome could furnish, and who never yet lowered his arm. If there be one among you who can say that ever, in public fight or private brawl, my actions did belie my tongue, let him