When Christ should come, and he had come;
All earthly thrones had fallen down,
His glorious kingdom had begun,

He wore the world's eternal crown.
And what was Time? Like far-off speck
That to the dim horizon clings,
It seemed, and could no more resist
The touch of everlasting things.

Up from the oceans came the dead,

And seas, that waited on His will,
Paused when they heard his coming tread,
And all their wandering waves were still.
The low, green graves, along the shores,
Heard, and obedient like the sea,
They opened wide their marble doors,
And set their silent prisoners free.

Sometimes, you know, in these dull days,
We meet together, and we sing
Old "Coronation," and we raise
Loud alleluias to our King;

And still, for sight or sound of him,

We look abroad through earth and sky; "Bring forth the royal diadem,

And crown him Lord of all," we cry.
How sweet the words! How grand the song!
And yet the slow years roll away;

Men live and die, and cry "How long
Will yet his chariot wheels delay?"

Alas! not yet we sing the song

In all its sweetness, for we know
That something in the world is wrong,
And there are undertones of woe.
How can we crown him “Lord” to-day,
When many millions sit forlorn,
And scarce believe us when we say
That Christ, the King of kings is born?
But high and higher still, the cross,
Is lifted up; its shades must fall,
A broad, bright band, the earth across,
Ere we can crown him "Lord of all."

Within my vision I could see

The ransomed peoples, and a light,

Far brighter than the sun could be,

Was shining on their robes of white.
From every time and clime they came,
But in one tongue they spoke at last;
All named the one eternal name,

And all their crowns before him cast.
Men who had lived before the flood
Were gathered there in countless crowds,
Martyrs and prophets, priests of God,

And they who saw him in the clouds.
They came from white and frozen zones,
From desert sands and flowery sod;
Where'er a wind had ever moaned,

Or human hands been raised to God.
Ended were pain and death and wrong,
All races now were met in one;
The kingdom, waited for so long,
With all its endless joy, had come.
And such a song as then was sung!
It sounded like a trumpet's call,
For every people, every tongue,

Were singing "Crown him Lord of all."
The song grew louder! Earth nor heaven
Had ever heard such music sweet,-
The song of souls that were forgiven;
And angels came on pinions fleet,
And joined their voices in the strain,
And harpers harped on harps of gold;
And "Crown him, Crown him!" yet again,
Around the ransomed world it rolled!

The vision faded, and our King
Doth neither hasten nor delay,
But every hour shall nearer bring
The wondrous Coronation Day.

THE YOUNG SCHOLAR.-C. D. WARNER.

I should think myself a criminal, if I said anything to chill the enthusiasm of the young scholar, or to dash with any skepticism his longing and his hope. He has chosen the highest. His beautiful faith, and his aspira

tion, are the light of life. Without his fresh enthusiasm, and his gallant devotion to learning, to art, to culture, the world would be dreary enough.

Through him comes the ever-springing inspiration in affairs.

Baffled at every turn, and driven defeated from an hundred fields, he carries victory in himself. He belongs to a great and immortal army. Let him not be discouraged at his apparent little influence, even though every sally of every young life may seem like a forlorn hope. No man can see the whole of the battle. It must needs be that regiment after regiment, trained, accomplished, gay and high with hope, shall be sent into the field, marching on, into the smoke, into the fire, and be swept away. The battle swallows them, one after the other, and the foe is yet unyielding, and the ever-remorseless trumpet calls for more and more. But not in vain; for some day, and every day, along the line, there is a cry, "They fly, they fly!" And the whole army advances, and the flag is planted on an ancient fortress, where it never waved before. And even if you never see this, better than inglorious camp-following, is it to go in with the wasting regiment, to carry the colors up the scope of the enemy's works, though the next moment you fall and find a grave at the foot of the glacis.

WILLIAM BROWN OF OREGON.-JOAQUIN MILLER.

They called him Bill, the hired man,
But her, Gulnare Belinda Jane,
The Squire's daughter; and to reign
The belle from Ber-she-be to Dan

Her little game. How lovers rash
Got mittens at that spelling school!
How many a mute inglorious fool

Wrote rhymes and sighed and died-mustache!

This hired man had loved her long,

Had loved her best, and first, and last.

Her very garments, as she passed,

For him had symphony and song.

So when, one day, with brow afrown,
She called him "Bill," he raised his head;
He caught her eye and faltering said,
"I love you! and my name is Brown."

She fairly waltzed with rage; she wept;
You would have thought the house on fire.
She told her sire, the portly Squire,
Then smelt her smelling salts and slept.
Poor William did what could be done;
He swung a pistol on each hip,
He gathered up a great ox whip
And drove toward the setting sun.

He crossed the great backbone of earth;
He saw the snowy mountains rolled
Like mighty billows; saw the gold
Of awful sunsets; felt the birth
Of sudden dawn upon the plain:

And every night would William Brown
Eat pork and beans, and then lie down
And dream of dear Belinda Jane.

Her lovers passed. Wolves hunt in packs.
They sought for bigger game; somehow
They seemed to see about her brow

The forky sign of turkey tracks.
The teeter board of life goes up;
The teeter board of life goes down;
The fairest face must learn to frown,
Dregs may be in sweetest cup.

O maidens, pluck not at the air;
The sweetest flowers I have found
Grow rather close unto the ground,
And highest places are most bare.
Why, you had better win the grace
Of one poor dark-hued Af-ri-can,
Than win the eyes of every man
In love alone with his own face.

At last she nursed a new desire;
She sighed, she wept for William Brown.
She watched the splendid sun go down,
Like some great sailing ship on fire,
Then rose and checked her trunks right on,
And on the cars she lunched and lunched,

And had her ticket punched and punched,
Until she came to Oregon.

She reached the limit of the lines.
She wore blue specs upon her nose,
Wore rather short and manly clothes,
And so set out to reach the mines.
Her right hand held a Testament,
Her pocket held a parasol,

And thus equipped right on she went,→
Went water-proof and water-fall.

She met a miner gazing down,

Slow stirring something with a spoon;
"Oh tell me true and tell me soon,
What has become of William Brown?"
He looked askance beneath her specs,
Then stirred the mixture round and round,
Then raised his head and sighed profound,
And said, "He's handed in his checks."
Then care fed on her damaged cheek,
And she grew faint, did sighing Jane,
And smelt her smelling salts in vain;
Yet wand'ring on way worn and weak,
At last she climbed a hill alone,
And on that hill she sat her down;
For on that hill there stood a stone,
And, lo! that stone read William Brown!

"O William Brown! O WILLIAM BROWN!
And here you rest at last," she said,
"With this lone stone above your head,
And forty miles from any town!
I will plant cypress trees, I will,
And I will build a fence around,
And I will fertilize the ground
With tears enough to turn a mill."

She went and got a hired man,

She brought him forty miles from town;
And in the tall grass squatted down,
And bade him build as she should plan.
But Indian herders with their bands
Them saw, and hurriedly they ran
And told a bearded cattle man
Somebody builded on his lands.