But best resolves are of such feeble thread,
They may be broken in temptation's hands.
After long toil the guiltless prisoner said:
Why should I thus, and feel life's precious sands
The narrow of my glass, the present, run,
For a poor crime that I have never done?

Such questions are like cups, and hold reply; For when the chance swung wide the prisoner fled,

And gained the country road, and hastened by Brown furrowed fields and skipping brooklets, fed

By shepherd clouds, and felt 'neath sapful trees
The soft hand of the mesmerizing breeze.

Then, all that long day having eaten naught,
He at a cottage stopped, and of the wife
A brimming bowl of fragrant milk besought.
She gave it him; but as he quaffed the life,
Down her kind face he saw a single tear
Pursue its wet and sorrowful career.

Within the cot he now beheld a man

And maiden, also weeping. "Speak," said he, "And tell me of your grief; for if I can,

I will disroot the sad, tear-fruited tree."
The cotter answered: "In default of rent,
We shall to-morrow from this roof be sent."

Then said the galley slave: "Whoso returns
A prisoner escaped may feel the spur
To a right action, and deserves and earns
Proffered reward. I am a prisoner!

Bind these my arms, and drive me back my way, That your reward the price of home may pay."

Against his wish the cotter gave consent,
And at the prison-gate received his fee,
Though some made it a thing for wonderment
That one so sickly and infirm as he,

When stronger would have dared not to attack, Could capture this bold youth and bring him back.

Straightway the cotter to the mayor hied,
And told him all the story; and that lord
Was much affected, dropping gold beside
The pursed sufficient silver of reward;
Then wrote his letter in authority,
Asking to set the noble prisoner free.

There is no nobler, better life on earth
Than that of conscious, meek self-sacrifice.
Such life our Saviour, in His lowly birth
And holy work, made His sublime disguise-
Teaching this truth, still rarely understood:
'Tis sweet to suffer for another's good.

Henry Abbey.

THE SEA BREEZE AND THE SCARF.

HUNG on the casement that looked o'er the main Fluttered a scarf of blue;

And a gay, bold breeze paused to flutter and

tease

This trifle of delicate hue.

"You are lovelier far than the proud skies are," He said, with a voice that sighed.

"You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea; Oh! why do you stay here and hide?

"You are wasting your life in this dull, dark room;"

And he fondled her silken folds.

"O'er the casement lean but a little, my queen, And see what the great world holds.

How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue Cheapens both sea and sky!

You are far too bright to be hidden from sight:
Come, fly with me, darling, fly!"

Tender his whisper, and sweet his caress;
Flattered and pleased was she:
The arms of her lover lifted her over

The casement out to sea.

Close to his breast she was fondly pressed,
Kissed once by his laughing mouth:
Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave,
While the wind went whistling south.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

A STRONG and mighty Angel,

Calm, terrible, and bright,

The cross in blended red and blue

Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling,

Each on his broken chain,

Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign,The white, the blue, and red."

Then rose up John de Matha

In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,

The drawbridge at his coming fell,

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed :
Freighted with seven-score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred,
Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves, rudderless,
A shattered hulk she swung.

"God save us!" cried the captain,
For naught can man avail;

Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks
Her rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen;
At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John de Matha:
"God's errands never fail!
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off-shore
The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill: The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha:

"My mariners, never fear!

The Lord whose breath has filled her sail

May well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darkness

They drove for weary hours;