Though nations mourn their ruler's fall
And war sweep o'er the land.

Light on the distant hills!

The light of truth and right;

The years sweep on, the nations move,
And goodness gathers might.

The winds of God shall sweep the clouds
Away across the sky,

And all the shades shall be dispelled
That in the valleys lie;

And though these shadows linger still,
The heart with rapture thrills,

That while we wait and work and pray
The light shines on the hills!

Mrs. Peirson's prose is almost as poetical as her verse. It is very pure in expression, very tender in sentiment, often, and evidently the work of an introspective mind. If it most generally takes on the character of reverie, it is a refining and healthful reverie, suggestive of self-betterment, and there ought to be more of it.

M. H. COBB.

OME men are born reformers. Love of their fellowman, and desire for human betterment,

seem part of their very being. Quick to recognizs the Universal Want, their faith is strong that this Want will speedily be met. They will compel the millennial day in a lustrum, at the furthest, they fondly believe, and in this belief they labor on, fainting not, neither growing weary-wondering that the world so slowly progresses, perhaps, but confident that it does progress, and full of hope in its near future.

even in their impa-
They work with an
Personal advance-
Sinking the in-

These reformers are patient, tience. They make real sacrifices. eye single to improving their race. ment, selfish interests, go for naught. dividual in the mass, they aspire only to a general good. In a rare spirit of philanthropic self-abnegation they seek solely the welfare of mankind. If they remain poor in purse it is small wonder. If they do not ultimately become despondent and cynical, the wonder is scarcely less. The millennium does not dawn; an ideal manhood does not gladden the world; their labors appear productive of little fruit. And the hands do at last tire of toil; the gray hairs do come and multiply; the

wrinkles hint of accumulating years and an end to doing.

Of this class of born reformers is Mr. M. H. Cobb, now Cashier of the United States Mint, in Philadelphia, longtime connected with the Newspaper Press, and author of the following Waif:

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

If men cared less for wealth and fame,

And less for battle-fields and glory,

If writ in human hearts a name

Seemed better than in song or story;

If men instead of nursing pride

Would learn to hate it and abhor it,
If more relied

On love to guide,

The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,

And more in bonds and deeds fraternal,
If love's work had more willing hands

To link this world with the supernal;
If men stored up Love's oil and wine
And on bruised human hearts would pour it,
If "yours" and "mine"

Would once combine,

The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of Life,
And fewer spoil it in rehearsal ;
If Bigotry would sheath its knife,

Till good became more universal;
If Custom, gray with ages grown,

Had fewer blind men to adore it,-
If Talent shone

In Truth alone,

The world would be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things

Affecting less in all their dealings;
If hearts had fewer rusted strings

To isolate their kindred feelings;

If men, when Wreng beats down the Right,
Would strike together to restore it,—
If Right made Might

In every fight,

The world would be the better for it.

This poem, like many others from the same pen, was begotten of a strong desire to make man better, and therefore happier. It is a development in rhyme of the idea supreme in its author's mind, but oftener finding expression in years gone by than now. For the reform spirit sometimes appears to be less dominant in a man, as circumstances hedge him about, and its manifestations become less marked. Mr. Cobb is to-day as much a reformer at heart as when, twenty years ago, he penned the above waif-his desire for human betterment is not less strong than it then was-but a group of sunny-hearted girls call him father, their noble mother adds a wealth of affection to his life, and it is easy to see how his love of man has come to be somewhat specialized.

Mr. Cobb was born on Beech Hill, in the town of Colebrook, Litchfield county, Conn., April 20th, 1828.

His ancestry were of the good stock that settled Plymouth and Saybrook-so well-known in New England history and so he has a clear title to his temperament and taste, both of which are tinged with the missionary element, it seems to us, and both of which impel to hard work, while the former can bide a patient waiting. We have classed him among the born reformers. The reform spirit was born with his new-born manhood, in manifestation. At the age of fourteen he began writing, his first published efforts being tolerable imitations of Byron, and funny parodies of Junius in a political way, which appeared in the Hartford Times; but at twentyone he took to enthusiastic verse-making in behalf of reform, and his name became familiar to such reform lovers as read the New York Tribune.

Then he set himself about what he regarded the real work of man's moral redemption; and he labored with rare faithfulness. "I have worked twenty hours a day," he wrote us once, "and lived on less than a dollar a week, expecting to see the world ever so much improved thereby. It was an amusing dream. Still, the example told, and if human gratitude can comfort one I may be comforted." It will be seen that he had faith. It will be seen, also, that he measures his efforts more correctly than once he did; it is possible that he even undervalues them. Good, faithful, loyal service will better the world somewhat-thus much is sure-though it may not to our knowledge speed millennial glory.