THE BEAUTIFUL CITY. Where lies it? We question and listen; The dust of the one blurs our vision The glare of the other our brain, Nor city nor island elysian In all of the land or the main ! We kneel in dim fanes where the thunders And the longing heart listens and wonders, And our eyes only reach where the painter The Beautiful City! O mortal, Fare hopefully on in thy quest, To point out the Beautiful City, 69 EXAMPLE. J. KEBLE. We scatter seeds with careless hand, And dream we ne'er shall see them more: Their fruit appears, In weeds that mar the land Or healthful store. In deeds we do, the words we say, In the dread judgment they I charge thee by the years gone by, For the love of brethren dear, Keep, then, the one true way In work and play, Lest in the world their cry Of woe thou hear. NOTHING IS LOST. Nothing is lost; the drop of daw In summer's thunder shower; Nothing is lost; the tiniest seed By wild birds borne, on breezes blown, The langunge of soine household song, So with our words-or harsh or kind, "They leave their influence on the mind, So with our deeds-for good or ill, They have their power, scarce understood; To make them rife with good! -Woman. LEFT UNDONE. MARGARET E. SANGSTER. It isn't the thing you do, dear, The letter you did not write, The flower you might have sent, dear, The stone you might have lifted Out of a brother's way. The bit of heartsome counsel You have hurried too much to say; The gentle and winsome tone, That you had no time nor thought for, The little acts of kindness, So easily out of mind; Those chances to be angels Each chill, reproachful wraith- For life is all too short, dear, And sorrow is all too great, That tarries until too late. THE BLUE AND THE GRAY. F. M. FINCH. Y the flow of the inland river, Whence the fleets of iron have fled, Where the blades of the grave grass quiver Asleep are the ranks of the dead; Under the scd and the dew, Waiting the Judgment day: - Under the one, the Blue; Under the other, the Gray. These in the robings of glory, Under the sod and the dew, From the silence of sorrowful hours The desolate mourners go, Lovingly laden with flowers Alike for the friend and the foe;-- Waiting the Judgment day; |