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Booming heavily on the ear
Breaks the signal-gun loud and clear;
Batteries vomit their breath of flame;
Death has opened his bloody game!
Swiftly the charging columns form
Amid the sleet of the iron storm;

Flash upon flash!

The line fails not;
On they dash,

Through thick grape shot;
Sternly they close

On the hated foes ;
Shoulder to shoulder and man to man,
On they press o'er the fallen van.
Shouting and cursing with maddened yell,
Strong men grapple like fiends of hell:
“They fly! they fly!" is the victor's cry,
Drowning the groans of agony.

Over the field a sulphurous cloud
Hangs like a damp and dark death shroud.
Pity is dead, mercy has filed,
Man is changed to a demon dread:
Carnage exults in the gloomy pall,
Death is holding his carnival
Over the warriors, stark and grim,
Over the mangled corse and limb.

Hushed is the cannon's heavy roar,
Exhausted nature can strive no more ;
The wearied armies sink down to rest
Upon the battle-field's bloody breast.
Moans of the dying, shrieks of pain,
Cries for water, rise wild and vain.
Over the living Sleep casts her vail;
Meek-eyed Mercy, with brow so pale,
Weeps by the wounded soldier's side,
Watching the ebbing of life's warm tide;
Stilling the heart so racked by pain,
Never in anguish to throb again.

Embattled legions, with thundering tread, Shall rouse no more the grim hosts dead;

MAN'S MISSION.

117

But ere the set of another sun
The hard-fought field must be lost or won;
And the living must mingle again in strife,
The final struggle for death or life.
God grant the right may win the fight
Before the fall of another night!
God grant that there on evening air
Victorious freemen raise their prayer.

MAN'S MISSION.

HUMAN lives are silent teaching,

Be they earnest, mild, and true;
Noblest deeds are noblest preaching

From the consecrated Few.
Poet-priests their anthems singing,
Hero-sword on corselet ringing,

When Truth's banner is unfurled;
Youthful preachers, genius-gifted,
Pouring forth their souls uplifted,

Till their preaching stirs the world.
Each must work as God has given,

Hero-hand, or poet-soul;
Work is duty while we live in

This weird world of sin and dole.
Gentle Spirits, lowly kneeling,
Lift their white hands up appealing

To the throne of Heaven's King;
Stronger natures, culminating
In great actions, incarnating

What another can but sing.

Pure and meek-eyed as an angel,

We must strive, must agonize;
We must preach the saints' evangel,

Ere we claim the saintly prize;
Work for all, for work is holy;
We fulfill our mission solely

When, like Heaven's arch above, Blend our souls in one emblazon, And the social diapason

Sounds the perfect chord of love.

Life is combat, life is striving,

Such our destiny below,
Like a scythèd chariot driving

Through an onward-pressing foe.
Deepest sorrow, scorn, and trial,
Will but teach us self-denial;

Like the Alchemists of old,
Pass the ore through cleansing fire,
If our Spirits would aspire

To be God's refinèd gold.

We are struggling in the Morning

With the Spirit of the Night, But we trample on it scorning,

Lol the eastern sky is bright.
We must watch. The day is breaking;
Soon, like Mennon's statue, waking

With the sunrise into sound,
We shall raise our voice to Heaven,
Chant a hymn for conquest given,

Seize the palm nor heed the wound.

We must bend our thoughts to earnest,

Would we strike the Idols down; With the purpose of the sternest,

Take the Cross and leave the Crown. Sufferinys human life can hallow, Sufferings lead to God's Valhalla

Meekly bear, but humbly try; Like a man, with soft tears flowing, Like a God, with conquest glowing,

So to live, and work, and die!

THE CHILDREN,

119

THE CHILDREN.

WHEN the lessons and tasks are all ended,

And the school for the day is dismissed, The little ones gather around me

To bid me “Good-night” and be kissed.
Oh, the little white arms that encircle

My neck in their tender embrace ;
Oh, the smiles that are halos of heaven,

Shedding sunshine of love on my face.
And when they are gone, I sit dreaming

Of my childhood—too lovely to lastOf joy that my heart will remember

While it wakes to the pulse of the Past;
Ere the world and its wickedness made mo

A partner of Sorrow and Sin,
When the glory of God was about me,

And the glory of gladness within.

My heart grows as weak as a woman's,

And the fount of my feelings will flow, When I think of the paths, steep and stony,

Where the feet of the dear ones must go; Of the mountains of sin hanging o'er them,

Of the tempest of Fate blowing wild, Oh, there's nothing on earth half so holy

As the innocent heart of a child !

They are idols of hearts and of households,

They are angels of God in disguise ;
His sunlight still sleeps in their tresses,

His glory still gleams in their eyes.
Oh, those truants from home and from heaven,

They have made me more manly and mild,
And I know now how Jesus could liken

The kingdom of God to a child.

I ask not a life for the dear ones,

All radiant, as others have done ;
But that life may have just enough shadow

To temper the glare of the sun.

I would pray God to guard them from evil

But my prayer would bound back to myself:
Ah, a seraph may pray for a sinner,

But a sinner must pray for himself.

The twig is so easily bended,

I have banished the rule and the rod;
I have taught them the goodness of knowledge-

They have taught me the goodness of God.
My heart is the dungeon of darkness

Where I shut them for breaking a rule;
My frown is sufficient correction.

My love is the law of the school.

I shall leave the old house in the autumn,

To traverse its threshold no more;
Ah, how I shall sigh for the dear ones

That meet me each morn at the door;
I shall miss the Good-nights,” and the kisses,

And the gush of their innocent glee;
The group on the green, and the flowers

That are brought every morning for me.
I shall miss them at morn and at even-

Their song in the school and the street;
I shall miss the low hum of their voices,

And the tramp of their delicate feet.
When the lessons of Life are all ended,

And Death says: “The school is dismissed I".
May the little ones gather around me,

To bid me good-night and be kissed.

EXTRACTS FROM WHITTIER'S BALLAD, “THE RANGER."

ROBERT RAWLIN -Frosts were falling
When the ranger's horn was calling

Through the woods to Canada.
Gone the winter's sleet and snowing,
Gone the spring-time's bud and blowing,

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