A felon had, between the goal and him,

Reached from behind his back, a trigger pressed, And those perplexed and patient eyes were dim; Those gaunt, long-laboring limbs were laid to rest.

The old world and the new, from sea to sea,
Utter one voice of sympathy and shame.
Sore heart, so stopped when it at last beat high!
Sad life, cut short just as its triumph came !
Yet with a martyr's crown is crowned a life
With much to praise, little to be forgiven!

28. THE PATRIOTIC PRINCE.

FREDERICK WILHELM LUDWIG VON HOHENZOLLERN, late Emperor of Germany, was born March 22, 1797, and died March 9, 1888. Almost at his last moments, when advised to rest, he replied, "I have no time for rest. What I have to say for my country, I must say now." These last words of a wise Christian ruler were the key to a marvellous patriotic life, the chief facts of which are embodied in the following tribute. In boyhood as well as in later life an exile from home, he was ever an impassioned lover and servant of his Fatherland. William was crowned Emperor, January 18, 1871, at the palace of Versailles, Paris, on the anniversary of the coronation of his ancestor Frederick I.

THE Nation's sire, four-score of years had toiled
In service of the grand old Fatherland,

Since time when, exiled from ancestral halls,
His loving father bade him dress with care
In the Prussian garb of martial service.

"No time for rest," as forth he firmly strode,
In years an untried youth, at heart a man ;
His spirit tempered by the solemn hour
Which witnessed vows "his country to redeem ;
And, nerved by purpose never lost,

He moved serenely forward to the goal.

"No time for rest" when queenly mother, firm, In earnest tones her son addressed,

And bade him, "through love for her, the honor of The Prussian State, avenging justice stern,

And all his hopes for earth and heaven beyond,

To rise above the age degenerate,

And action take, his utmost will exert,
Prussia to restore, reproach to cancel,
And raise again the prostrate Fatherland."

"No time for rest, as feeble limb and arm,
Nurtured and trained by well-timed exercise,
Put on the strength of ripened manhood,
And, beardless as a child, he faced the fires
Of hottest fight, an order to obey;

AndBar-sur-Aube " its proudest honor sent
Unsought, but nobly earned, to youthful prince
Who knew no fear when country bade him do.

"No time for rest," when fatal Auerstadt,
Sad supplement to Jena's battle waste,
Enforced the stern demand that every nerve
And force of body, spirit, soul, and mind,
Must consecrated be anew, at once,

Or Prussia as a State be ever lost.

"No time for rest," when surging armies came
To rend his country, despoil her homes and halls,
And parcel out to cold usurping hosts

The heritage for which so long he fought, -
The heritage of an honored name and fame.

"No time for rest" when, wrongly judged by those
Who could not sound a mind so truly great,
Enforced to second exile from his home,
From Britain's genial, kind, and friendly care
He bent his homeward way, no more to roam.

"No time for rest" when, scarcely joined, as yet,
The whirlwind of a causeless war broke forth,
The grand old Fatherland to swiftly smite
Before its allied States could blend as one
Their treasures, their affections, and their prayers,
And, blending all, defy the ruthless storm.

"No time for rest" when, foremost at the front,
He stemmed the tide of battle's flow,
Reversed its course, and, mounting on the wave,
O'erflowed the invader's boasted seat of power,
And in the palace of his foe, dethroned,
Proclaimed to all the world, fruition full
Of years of restless toil, the work complete,
United Germany.

"No time for rest. No time for rest."

The four-score years had filled their measure full,
When summons to a higher seat than throne
On earth, a broader realm than Fatherland,
Employs his earnest thought, as failing flesh.
Withdraws its tenement from the lingering soul.

And yet, as breathed upon by breath divine,
The Christian monarch, hero, friend, and sire
Revives again, in wise and tender words
His country and his people there to bless,
Invoking "peace with all the world besides; "
"No more
"himself "to toil with them on earth,"
But, parting, rise with white-winged messenger
Sent from the upper skies, from care set free,
To enter upon his rest at last,- Eternal Rest.

HENRY B. CARRINGTON.

12

29. TURAL CAIN.

OLD Tubal Cain was a man of might

In the days when the earth was young; By the fierce red light of his furnace bright The strokes of his hammer rung;

And he lifted high his brawny hand
On the iron growing clear,

Till the sparks rushed out in scarlet showers,
As he fashioned the sword and the spear.

And he sang,

"Hurrah for my handiwork!

Hurrah for the spear and the sword!

Hurrah for the hand that shall wield them well, For he shall be king and lord!"

But a sudden change came o'er his heart

Ere the setting of the sun;

And Tubal Cain was filled with pain

For the evil he had done.

He saw that men, with rage and hate,

Made war upon their kind;

That the land was red with the blood they shed

In their lust for carnage blind.

And he said, "Alas! that I ever made,

Or that skill of mine should plan,

The spear and the sword for men whose joy
Is to slay their fellow-man!"

And men, taught wisdom from the past,
In friendship joined their hands,

Hung the sword in the hall, the spear on the wall,
And ploughed the willing lands;

And for the ploughshare and the plough,

To him our praise shall be.

But while oppression lifts its head,

Or a tyrant would be lord,

Though we may thank him for the plough,

We'll not forget the sword."

CHARLES MACKAY.

30.

SONG OF THE UNION.

ERE Peace and Freedom, hand in hand,
Went forth to bless this happy land
And make it their abode,

It was the foot-stool of a throne;
But now no master here is known.
No king is feared, but God.

Americans uprose in might,

And triumphed in the unequal fight,
For Union made them strong;
Union, the magic battle-cry
That hurled the tyrant foeman high,
And crushed his hireling throng.

That word since then has shone on high,

In starry letters on the sky,

It is our country's name.

What impious hands shall rashly dare
Down from its lofty peak to tear

The banner of her fame?

The spirits of the heroic dead,
Who for Columbia fought and bled,
Would curse the dastard son

Who should betray their noble trust,
And madly trample in the dust

The charter which they won.