FATE.

BRET HARTE.

"THE sky is clouded, the rocks are bare;
The spray of the tempest is white in air;
The winds are out with the waves at play
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day.

"The trail is narrow, the wood is dim,
The panther clings to the arching limb;
And the lion's whelps are abroad at play,
And I shall not join in the chase to-day.'

But the ship sailed safely over the sea,
And the hunters came from the chase in glee,
And the town that was builded upon a rock
Was swallowed up in the earthquake-shock.

THE LORDS OF THULE.

FROM THE GERMAN.

THE Lords of Thule it did not please
That Willegis their bishop was,
For he was a wagoner's son.
And they drew, to do him scorn,

Wheels of chalk upon the wall;

He found them in chamber, found them in hall.

But the pious Willegis

Could not be moved to bitterness;

Seeing the wheels upon the wall,

He bade his servants a painter call;

And said,

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My friend, paint now for me

On every wall, that I may see,

A wheel of white in a field of red; Underneath, in letters plain to be read"Willegis, bishop now by name,

Forget not whence you came.'

The Lords of Thule were full of shame,
They wiped away their words of blame;
For they saw that scorn and jeer
Cannot wound the wise man's ear.

And all the bishops that after him came
Quartered the wheel with their arms of fame.
Thus came to pious Willegis
Glory out of bitterness.

MATINS.

EDNA DEAN PROCTOR.

RICHARD, the lion-hearted,
Parting for Palestine,
In lone St. Mary's Abbey,

Knelt at our lady's shrine;

And begged that the Abbot's blessing
And the monk's prevailing prayer,
Might follow him over the waters

And the deserts hot and bare.

"God be praised!" quoth the Abbot, "By Holy Rood I swear

That at matins, and sext, and compline
Through the church's sacred air,
Petitions shall rise to Heaven,

That the wave and the shore may be
Safe for our Sovereign Richard,

Till conqueror home comes he."

The moon of another April
Shone on the Eastern Sea,
And sailing by rocky Cyprus
The Holy Land to free,

Were the king and his Norman nobles —
When out of the south there blew

The blast of the dread sirocco,

And away the good ship flew.

Into the blinding darkness,

Into the howling storm,

While the salt sea wreathed before her
A beckoning demon form.
"Mary have mercy!" the sailors

Shrieked as the masts went down; "Bitter is death," sighed the nobles, "So near to our glory's crown!"

Leaning over the bulwarks,

Richard, risen from rest,

With his white brow bared to the tempest, And his blue eyes turned to the west,

Cried in a voice of anguish

That rung o'er the foaming sea, "Would God it were time for matins,

And the gray monks prayed for me!"

Meanwhile in the fields of England,
The dew distilled its balm,
And the lone Cistercian Abbey,

Slept in the midnight calm—
Till the moon had passed the zenith,
And the watch of morning fell;
When over the wood and the moorland,
Rung clear the matin bell.

Then through the silent cloisters

And under the arches dim,

Abbot and monk and friar

Chanting a solemn hymn,

While the flame of the stone-hewed cressets Flared with its rise and fall,

And the virgin smiled serenely

From her niche in the lofty wall,

Entered the aisle to the altar,

And knelt with the fervent prayer That still for their Sovereign Richard The winds might be soft and fair. "Bless him, O Lord," quoth the Abbot, "And bring him in peace again With the sign of our faith triumphant,"

And the monks said low, "Amen!"

That moment over the tempest

A lull stole out of the west,

And the ship rocked, light as a sea-bird
Asleep on the ocean's breast.
"Lord of my life," cried Richard,
"Thine shall the glory be!

I know 'tis the hour for matins
And the gray monks pray for me!"

FRIENDSHIP.

SOCRATES.

GET not your friends by bare compliments, but by giving them sensible tokens of your love. It is well worth while to learn how to win the heart of a man in the right way. Force is of no use to make or preserve a friend, who is an animal, that is never caught nor tamed but by kindness and pleasure.

A GREYPORT LEGEND.

BRET HARTE.

THEY ran through the streets of the seaport town; They peered from the decks of the ships that lay: The cold sea-fog that comes whitening down

Was never as cold or white as they.

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Ho, Starbuck, and Pinckney, and Tenterden, Run for your shallops, gather your men, Scatter your boats on the lower bay!

Good cause for fear! In the thick midday
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier,