them dead;

That, whosoever lives or dies, he save His holy cause!

and song;

And nature folds them in her heart and keeps them safe from wrong.

prayeth for;

war,-

of men;

bay, and hill;

ful hum;

morning come!

For all the youth worth love and truth are marshalled for the fray:

dear,

O joy! the cry is "Forward!" O joy! the foe is near!

From where the stately Hudson floats the wealth

of half the world;

the land;

Hurrah! the ranks of battle close; God takes his

cause in hand!

Matthias Barr.

Barr, born in Edinburgh in 1831, was the son of a German watch-maker. Removing to London, he published a volume of "Poems" in 1865, and the following year issued the "Child's Garland," which was well received. A revised and enlarged edition of his "Poems" appeared in 1870. His songs and rhymes for the young have earned him the title of "The Children's Poetlaureate."

GOD'S FLOWERS.

Look up, sweet wife, through happy tears, And see our tiny buds ablow,

With yearning souls that strive to show, And burst the tender green of years.

So sweet they hang upon life's stem, Their beauty stills our very breath, As, thinking of the spoiler, Death, We bend in silence over them,—

And shed our dew of praise and prayer On hearts that turn toward the sun, And watch the leaflets, one by one, That scent for us the common air.

And she, our latest blossom given,

That scarce hath lost the dimple-touch Of God's own fingers, and, as such, Still pulses to the throb of heaven;

And blind with brightness of his face,
Lies dreaming in a nest of love,

With ears that catch the sounds that move And swell around the Throne of Grace!

Ah! how for her our hearts will peer

And look, with faith, through swimming eyes, For balmy winds and summer skies, And tremble when a cloud is near.

Dear flowers of God! how much we owe To what you give us, all unsoughtThe grandeur and the glory caught From hills where truth and wisdom grow.

1866.

ONLY A BABY SMALL.

Only a baby small,

Dropped from the skies; Only a laughing face,

Two sunny eyes;

Only two cherry lips,

One chubby nose; Only two little hands,

Ten little toes.

Only a golden head,

Curly and soft; Only a tongue that wags

Loudly and oft; Only a little brain,

Empty of thought; Only a little heart,

Troubled with naught.

Only a tender flower
Sent us to rear;
Only a life to love,

While we are here;
Only a baby small,

Never at rest;

Small, but how dear to us, God knoweth best.

Paul Hamilton Hayne.

AMERICAN.

Hayne was born in Charleston, S. C., in 1831. He published volumes of poems as early as 1855 and 1857; and in 1859 appeared his "Avolio: a Legend of the Island of Cos, with other Poems, Lyrical, Miscellaneous, and Dramatic." He has since been a frequent contributor to the leading magazines. He is the author of an excellent memoir of Henry Timrod, one of the most gifted of American poets; and Hayne himself writes as if he too had been "in Arcadia born."

FROM THE WOODS.

Why should I, with a mournful, morbid spleen,
Lament that here, in this half-desert scene,
My lot is placed?

At least the poet-winds are bold and loud,-
At least the sunset glorifies the cloud,
And forests old and proud
Rustle their verdurous banners o'er the waste.

Perchance 'tis best that I, whose Fate's eclipse Seems final,-I, whose sluggish life-wave slips Languid away,—

Should here, within these lowly walks, apart From the fierce throbbings of the populous mart, Commune with mine own heart, While Wisdom blooms from buried Hope's decay.

And more than all, o'er shattered wrecks of Fate, The relics of a happier time and state,

My nobler life

Shines on unquenched! O deathless love that lies In the clear midnight of those passionate eyes! Joy waneth! Fortune flies!

Yon fadeless forests in their Titan grace,
And the large splendors of those opulent skies.
I watch, unwearied, the miraculous dyes
Of dawn or sunset; the soft boughs which lace
Round some coy Dryad in a lonely place,
Thrilled with low whispering and strange sylvan
sighs:

Weary? The poet's mind is fresh as dew,

LYRIC OF ACTION.

'Tis the part of a coward to brood

O'er the past that is withered and dead: What though the heart's roses are ashes and dust? What though the heart's music be fled? Still shine the grand heavens o'erhead, Whence the voice of an angel thrills clear on the soul,

"Gird about thee thine armor, press on to the goal!"

If the faults or the crimes of thy youth
Are a burden too heavy to bear,
What hope can rebloom on the desolate waste
Of a jealous and craven despair?
Down, down with the fetters of fear!

His clear child's soul finds something sweet and new
Even in a weed's heart, the carved leaves of corn,
The spear-like grass, the silvery rime of morn,
A cloud rose-edged, and fleeting stars at night!

Elizabeth Akers Allen.

AMERICAN.

Mrs. Allen, a native of Strong, Franklin County, Me., was born October 9th, 1832, and married in 1860 to Paul Akers, the sculptor, who died in 1861. She subsequently became the wife of Mr. E. M. Allen, of New York. Her early poems appeared under the nom de plume of Florence Percy. An edition of her works was published in Boston in 1867. Her popular poem of "Rock Me to Sleep" has had many claimants, whose persistency can be explained only by the theory of kleptomania. There

Edwin Arnold.

Born in London in 1832, Arnold was educated at Oxford, and in 1852 obtained the Newdigate prize for a poem on Belshazzar's feast. A proficient in Sanscrit and Arabic, he is a member of the Order of the Star of India. He has written "Griselda," a drama; "Poems, Narrative and Lyrical;" "Education in India;" "The Poets of Greece" (1869), besides several translations and contributions to the magazines. His longest poem, “The Light of Asia" (1880), is founded on the history of Prince Gautama, who became the Buddha of Oriental worship, and who flourished about 543 B.C. In regard to the doctrine of "Nirvana," Arnold has "a firm conviction that a third of mankind would never have been brought to believe in blank abstraction, or in nothingness as the issue and crown of Being." Still, he leaves the question obscure, for he says:

"If any teach Nirvana is to cease,

Say unto such they lie.

If any teach Nirvana is to live,

Say unto such they err; not knowing this,
Nor what light shines beyond their broken lamps,
Nor lifeless, timeless bliss."

The original American publishers of this noble epic are Roberts Brothers, Boston, who share their profits with the author. It passed through nineteen editions in less than a year. Arnold became connected with the editorial staff of the Daily Telegraph, London, in 1861. In 1879 he travelled in Egypt, and in 1880 withdrew from his connection with the Press.

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA.'

He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends.

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdullah's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,

I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile, and whisper this:-
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not I.”

1 This remarkable poem has been often recited at funerals in America. An Arabic poet of the twelfth century seems to have suggested it in lines which have been thus translated:

"When I am robed in the habiliments of the grave, my friends will weep for me. Say to them that this insensible corpse is not I. It is my body, but I no longer dwell in it. I am now a life that is inextinguishable. The remains they contemplate have been my temporary abode, my clothing for a day. I am a bird; the corpse was my cage. I have unfolded my wings, and filed my prison. I am the pearl; it was the shell, now of no value. My voyage is terminated. I leave you in exile. Let the shell perish with the illusions of earth. Do not say of the dead, this is death, for it is in reality the veritable life."

We are indebted to the author for a corrected copy of the poem, into which had crept several errors. The word Azan refers to the hour of Moslem prayer.

Sweet friends! what the women lave,
For its last bed of the grave,

Is a hut which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage, from which at last,

Like a hawk, my soul bath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room—
The wearer, not the garb-the plume
Of the falcon, not the bars

Which kept him from the splendid stars.

Loving friends! Be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye;
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear,
"Tis an empty sea-shell-one
Out of which the pearl has gone;
The shell is broken-it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.
"Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,

A mind that loved him: let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in His store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends!
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves yon; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in the light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity-

In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell;
Where I am, ye too shall dwell,
I am gone before your face,

A moment's time, a little space;
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will wonder why ye wept;

Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain—
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death-for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter
Life, which is of all life centre.