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Show THE POET'S NICHE. Conundrum of the Workikopi. When the flush of a new-bora sun fell first on Eden's green and erold. Oar father Adam sat under the tree and scratched with a nick in the mold: And the first rude sketch that the world had seen was joy to bis mighty heart. Till the devil whispered behind the leaves, "It's pretty, but Is it art!" Wherefore ha called his wife, and fled to fashion his work anew The first of his race who cared a fig for the first, most dread revi. w : And he left his lore t j the. use of his sons and that was a glorious gain: When the devil chuckled "Is it srt?"' in the ear of the branded Caiu They builded a tower to shiver the sky and wrench the stars apart. Till the devil grunted behind the bricks, "It's ' striking, but is it srtJ" The stone was dropped at the quarry side and the derrick swung. While each one talked of the aims of art, and each in an alien tongue. They fought and they talked in the north and the south, they talked and they fought in the west. Till the waters rose on the pitiful land and the poor led clay had rest Had rest till the dank blank canvas dawn when the dove was preened to start. When the devil bubbled balow the keel, "It's human, but is it art?" The tale is as old as the Eden tree and new as the new-cut tooth For each man knows ere his lit thatch grows he Is masur of art and truth; An.l eiirh Yuan hanr am the twllicrht nears. to tha beat of his dying hurt. The dvil drum on the darkened pane, "You did it, Lut was it artr' We have learned to whittle the Eden tree to the shape of a enplice' peg, We have learned to bottle our parents twain in the yoke of an addled et;e. We know that the tail must wag the dog, for the horse inOrawn by the cart; But the devil whoops, as he whooped of old, "It's clever, but is itart!'" When the flicknr of London sun falls faint on ths clu broom s greea and gold. The sons of Adr.in sit them down and scratch with their pen in the mold They scratch wi h their pens in the mold of their" graves, cnl the ink and the anguish start, For t tie devil mutters behihd the leaves, "It's pretty, but is it art?" Now, if wa could win to the Eden tree where the four fcri'at rivers flow, Acd the wreath of Eve is red on the turf as she left it long ago; And if we could come when the sentry slept and oftly scurry through. By the favor cf God we might know as much as our father Adam knew. . Rudyard Kipling. "Word and Oeedn of Heroes. The hero trae will speak for you When cowards' lips are sealed with fesr; pleads your cause when comes the pause t hat chills with doubt the eager ear. He dares defend '1 he absent friend, And he will bare . His heart to share The threat'ning, poised and pointed spear. How brave his deeds, when fashion pleads For gorgeous gilt ana trappings gay ! Ho will not wear the feathers fair 1 For which he has no tneins to pay. ! He dares to meet, Vpon the street, In garments old. Men de.ked with jrold. Who dream not of the debtor e day. How brave is he who foarlessly In battle dangers dares to meet And bhare the blows of anery foes In storms of Came and leaden sleet. True co::raste high Its flag will Cy In front of wrones When shouting thronsjs Trample the right beneath their feet. His word a bond, he looks beyond The courts to kfep him just and true; And we can trace upon his face The honest courage shining through. H oil, heroes jm-t. All men can trutt, ( Whosa words and deeds Like shattered peeds Spring up like roses wet with dew! AVu7 York Ltdgtr. Hymn. Q. A. B. CXCAXFMEKT. Comrades, come with rev'rent tread' ' i Where our fallen heroes lie, : In this "City of the Dead," They, unseen, may hover nigh. Years and years have rolled away, Peace has blessed oar sacred land; Living heroes, old and irrsy, Gatuer still, a layal baad. Heart and hand once more we pledge To maintain our country's laws, Life or death a privilege Held for freedom's holy cause. Ceasing not to mourn for you, Noble, brave and early lost! We rejoice, ye proved so true, Even at your life-blood's cost! Of our pure, unchanging love, While sweet hopes within us dwell Of our meeting-time above. iroin tht Home Magazine. Love is Immortal. Great Nature grinds with ceaseless force Her images To dust: Men die, tali towers crura bla down, In answer to her "most." And yet, no single atom falls Exhausted Into space, Each molecule of matter finds Its own appointed place. And so, throughout the moral world, Men's minds, complex aud strange, Are, all in all, no more tnan just Mad vortices of change. Still, in this sad, unstable life, Where all are rudely tossed In tempests of uncertainty, No jot of love Is lost Denver Timet, The See ret af Her Sorrow. In Boston, Sunday morning. The maiden is weeping bitterly. THB STJUS8EB. "What sorrow gnaweth at thy heart? What grief is in thy scralt Hath same of parent, lover friend. Been placed on Death's dark scroll n TU maidih. "Ah, woe is met Alack! alas 1 F&r worse than that my plight; This day can hold no joy for me The beans were burned last night." i'rank Lttlie Weekly. |
