Around and up in the dusky air,

As our hammers forge the sword.
The sword!-a name of dread; yet when
Upon the freeman's thigh 'tis bound,
While for his altar and his hearth,
While for the land that gave him birth,

The war-drums roll, the trumpets soundHow sacred is it then!

Whenever, for the truth and right,
It flashes in the van of fight-
Whether in some wild mountain-pass,
As that where fell Leonidas;
Or on some sterile plain, and stern,
A Marston, or a Bannockburn;
Or mid fierce crags and bursting rills,
The Switzer's Alps, gray Tyrol's hills;
Or, as, when sunk the Armada's pride,
It gleams above the stormy tide;-
Still, still, whene'er the battle-word

Is Liberty! when men do stand
For justice and their native land,—
Then Heaven bless the sword!

OUT AND INTO.

Out of the distance and darkness so deep,
Out of the settled and perilous sleep,
Out of the region and shadow of death,
Out of its foul and pestilent breath,
Out of the bondage and wearying chains,
Out of companionship ever with stains-
Into the light and glory of God,

Into the holiest made clean by the blood,
Into His arms, the embrace and the kiss,
Into the scene of ineffable bliss,

Into the quiet, the infinite calm,

Into the place of the song and the psalm; Wonderful love that has wrought all for me! Wonderful work that has thus set me free! Wonderful ground upon which I have come! Wonderful tenderness welcoming home! Out of the horror of being alone, Out, and forever, of being my own,

Out of the hardness of heart and of will,
Out of the longing which nothing could fill,
Out of the bitterness, madness and strife,
Out of myself, and of all I call life-

Into communion with Father and Son,
Into the sharing of all that Christ won,
Into the ecstasies full to the brim,
Into the having of all things with him.
Into Christ Jesus, there ever to dwell,
Into more blessing than words e'er can tell.
Wonderful lowliness, draining my cup!
Wonderful purpose, that ne'er gave me up!
Wonderful patience, that waited so long!
Wonderful glory, to which I belong!

Out of my poverty into his wealth,
Out of my sickness into pure health,
Out of the false and into the true,
Out of the old man into the new,

Out of what measures the full depth of "LOST!"
Out of it all, at infinite cost!

Into what must with that cross correspond,
Into that which there is nothing beyond,
Into what satisfies his and my heart,
Into a friendship that never shall part.
Into the deepest of joys ever had,

Into the gladness of making God glad!
Wonderful Being, whose face I'll behold!
Wonderful story, then all to be told!
Wonderful all the dread way that he trod!
Wonderful end, he brought me to God!

"HELP ME ACROSS, PAPA."

There was anguish in the faces of those who bent over the little white bed, for they knew that baby May was drifting away from them, going out alone into the dark voyage where so many have been wrested from loving hands, and as they tried in vain to keep her, even to smooth with their kind solicitude her last brief sorrows, they too experienced in the bitter hour of parting the pangs of death. They only hoped that she did not suffer

"

now.

The rings of golden hair lay damp and unstirred on her white forehead; the roses were turned to lilies on her cheeks; the lovely violet eyes saw them not, but were upturned and fixed; the breath on the pale lips came and went, fluttered and seemed loth to leave its sweet prison. Oh, the awful, cruel strength of death; the weakness, the helplessness, of love! Those who loved her better than life could not lift a hand to avert the destroyer; they could only watch and wait until the end should come. Her merry, ringing laugh would never again gladden their hearts; her little feet would make no more music as they ran pattering to meet them. Baby May was dying, and all the house was darkened and hushed!

Then it was, as the shadows fell in denser waves about us, that she stirred ever so faintly, and our hearts gave a great bound as we thought, "She is better! She will live." Yes, she knew us; her eyes moved from one face to the other, with a dim, uncertain gaze. Oh, how good God was to give her back! How we could praise and bless him all our lives. She lifted one dainty handcold-almost pulseless, but better-we would have it so-and laid it on the rough browned hand of the rugged man who sat nearest to her. His eye lighted all his bronzed face like a rainbow as he felt the gentle pressure of his little daughter's hand,-the mute, imploring touch that meant a question.

66

'What is it, darling?" he asked, in broken tones of joy and thanksgiving.

She could not speak, and so we raised her on the pretty lace pillow, and her wee white face shone in the twilight like a fair star or a sweet woodland flower.

She lifted her eyes to his,-eyes that even then had the glory and the promise of immortality in them, and reaching out her little wasted arms said, in her weary, flutelike voice:

"Help me across, papa!"

Then she was gone! We held to our breaking hearts

the frail, beautiful shell, but she was far away, whither She had crossed the dark river, and

we dare not follow.

not alone.

"Over the river the boatman pale

Carried another, the household pet,

She crossed on her bosom her dimpled hands,

And fearlessly entered the phantom bark;

We felt it glide from the silver sands,

And all our sunshine grew strangely dark.”

O infinite Father! When we weary and disappointed ones reach our pleading hands to thee, wilt thou take us even as the little child, and help us across over the mountains of defeat and the valleys of humiliation into the green pastures and beside the still waters, into the city of the New Jerusalem, whose builder and maker is God?

AN OLD WOMAN'S COMPLAINT.-R. L. ROYS. "Ef here ain't a terbaker spit, right on my nice new mat, Where I tuk sich pains tew pick in a han'some yaller cat; Now Mr. Bruce, the's no use talkin', you and I will hev tew part.

Ef I had knowed you chawed the weed, you should never had my heart;

You're a spittin' reound this house from mornin' until night;
I guess the furnitoor will soon be in a pooty plight;
Sich tarnal fools as men are, I wonder what's the use
For them ter chaw terbaker, and spit out all the juice.

They spit in every corner, and they spit in every room,
They spit beneath the table, and they spit behind the broom;
They spit on bristles carpet, they spit on painted floor,
"Tis spit, spit, spit, in the house or out o' door:

Ef they really think this life was made for nothin' but tew chaw,

They can't expect the wimmin folks tew dew anything but jaw;

But I say you've got to stop it, Mr. Hezekiah Bruce,

Ef you will chaw terbaker, you shall swaller all the juice.

The other day I went to ride, clar up to Bosting town;
I wore my very best,- -a bran new purple gown;
But when I tuk my little pew, within them plaguy kee
I like't to drop my carpet-bag, and burst all intew tears

Don't you think that every seat, where I undertuk tew sit, Was nothin' but a yaller ocean of terbaker spit.

I must confess I wished the men would go straight tew the deuce,

Always chawin' their terbaker, and spittin' eout the juice. Then jest tew hear the critters talk abeout wimmin drinkin' tea;

Makin' mountains eout of ant-hills, and a whale eout of a flea:

They jaw tew abeout school-gals, 'cause they take tew chaw

in' gum;

And with mouths full of terbaker they say, “Thy Kingdom come."

I don't see why they think the Lord will take a flag of truce
From a man who chaws terbaker, and spits eout all the juice.
Howsoever I suppose that you can't instruct a fool;

But there's jest one man on airth who is subject tew my rule,
And if you spit terbaker juice, I tell you Hezekiah,
You won't never need to die tew get intew the fire.

I must and will assert my rights, as a female, not a goose,
And if you will chaw terbaker, you shall swaller all the juice."

A SERMON IN RHYME.

If you have a friend worth loving,

Love him. Yes, and let him know
That you love him, e'er life's evening
Tinge his brow with sunset glow.
Why should good words ne'er be said
Of a friend till he is dead?

If you hear a song that thrills you
Sung by any child of song,
Praise it. Do not let the singer
Wait deserved praises long.

Why should one who thrills your heart,
Lack the joy you may impart?

If you hear a prayer that moves you
By its humble, pleading tone,
Join it. Do not let the seeker
Bow before his God alone.

Why should not your brother share
The strength of "two or three" in prayer?