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CHOICE SELECTIONS

No. 22.

FOURTH OF JULY.—George W. BETHUNE.

Maine, from her farthest border, gives the first exulting shout,

And from New Hampshire's granite heights, the echoing peal rings out;

The mountain farms of staunch Vermont prolong the thundering call,

And Massachusetts answers, "Bunker Hill"-a watchword

for us all.

Rhode Island shakes her sea-wet locks, acclaiming with the

free,

And staid Connecticut breaks forth in joyous harmony.
The giant joy of proud New York, loud as an earthquake's

roar,

Is heard from Hudson's crowded banks to Erie's crowded

shore.

Still on the booming volley rolls o'er plains and flowery glades

To where the Mississippi's flood the turbid gulf invades ;
There, borne from many a mighty stream upon her might-
ier tide,
Come down the swelling, long huzzas from all that valley

wide.

And wood-crowned Alleghany's call, from all her summits

high,

Reverberates among the rocks that pierce the sunset sky; While on the shores and through the swales round the vast

inland seas,

The stars and stripes, midst freemen's songs, are flashing

to the breeze.

7

The woodsman, from the mother, takes his boy upon his knee,

And tells him how their fathers fought and bled for liberty. The lonely hunter sits him down the forest spring beside, To think upon his country's worth, and feel his country's pride;

While many a foreign accent, which our God can understand,

Is blessing Him for home and bread in this free, fertile land.

Yes, when upon the eastern coast we sink to happy rest, The Day of Independence rolls still onward to the west, Till dies on the Pacific shore the shout of jubilee,

That woke the morning with its voice along the Atlantic Sea.

O God, look down upon the land which thou hast loved so

well,

And grant that in unbroken truth her children still may

dwell;

Nor, while the grass grows on the hill and streams flow through the vale,

May they forget their fathers' faith, or in their covenant fail:

Keep, God, the fairest, noblest land that lies beneath the

sun,

“Our country, our whole country, and our country ever one.”

A VISION.-MRS. E. M. H. GATES.

I had a vision. All the years

Of all the ages, had been told;

And earth, among the rolling spheres,
Paused in her pathway. She was old,
Yet had she ceased not in the race,
Nor wearied at her Master's word,

Till now, across the awful space,

Came new commandment, and she heard
And knew the voice that called her forth
From formless void, to do his will;-
His will was done from South to North,
And all her mighty wheels were still.

Above me, the familiar blue,

Like burning scroll, had fled away,--
The very heavens were strange and new.
It was the long-expected day

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.