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.

Let him not be

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. 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. 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.

But not in vain;

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 wayworn 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.

He snatched his rifle from the rack,
He girt himself in battle-pelt;

He stuck two pistols in his belt,

And mounting on his horse's back,

He plunged ahead. But when they shewed
A woman fair, about his eyes

He pulled his hat; and he likewise

Pulled at his beard and chewed and chewed.

At last he got him down and spake:

"O lady dear! What do you here?"
"I build a tomb unto my dear,

I plant sweet flowers for his sake!"
The bearded man threw his two hands
Above his head, then brought them down,
And cried, "Oh I am William Brown,
And this the corner-stone of my lands!"

GIVE US A CALL

Give us a call; we keep cool beer,
Wine and brandy and whiskey here;
Our doors are open to boys and men,

And even to women, now and then;

We lighten their purses, we taint their breaths,
We swell up the columns of awful deaths;

All kinds of crimes we sell for dimes

In our sugared poisons, so sweet to the taste.
If you've money, position, or name to waste,
Give us a call!

Give us a call. In a pint of gin

We sell more wickedness, shame, and sin
Than a score of clergymen, preaching all day
From dawn to darkness, could preach away;
And in our beer, though it may take longer

To make a man drunk than drinks that are stronge
We sell you poverty, sorrow, and woe:
Who wants to purchase? Our prices are low.
Give us a call!

Give us a call! We'll dull your brains,
We'll give you headaches and racking pains,
We'll make you old while yet you are young,
To lie and slander we'll train up your tongue.