Scourged to his dungeon; but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy

M

A FAREWELL

Y fairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray:

Yet, ere we part, one lesson

I can leave you

For every day.

* I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol Than lark who hails the dawn on breezy down;

To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them, all day long:

And so make life, death, and that vast

forever

One grand, sweet song.

-Charles Kingsley.

* This is printed in Max Müller's memoirs—“ Auld as having been originally Kingsley's second

Lang Syne".

stanza.

L. M. H.

THE HEAVENLY PLAY

O

band

GROUND

FATHER, in Thy Heavenly
Land

Where are the children
playing?—

I dream of many a joyful

In cloudy pathways straying.

Perchance they cross in crescent cars
Those sunset mountain ridges,
Or weave a dance around the stars
And over rainbow bridges.

I cannot think of them in rows,
Long Alleluias hymning,-
With hearts so ignorant of woes

And eyes that ne'er knew dimming.

More like that in the soundless Void
They run their merry races,

Or mount some vagrant asteroid
And sail about the spaces.

O, if Thy plan is understood,-
And 'tis a hope we cherish,-

Our good shall there grow greater good,
Our evil slowly perish!

Each aim shall find an end to suit,
And, warmed upon Thy bosom,
Our natures flush to perfect fruit,
And theirs to perfect blossom.

And as some lofty, lonely life,
Its solemn work arresting,
Doth turn for respite from the strife
To one shorter hour of jesting;-

So even there among the skies

May thoughts be sometimes straying, And, sated with sublimities,

Joy in the children's playing!

-John Hall Ingham.

SONNETS FROM THE PORTU

W

GUESE

XXII.

HEN our two souls stand up erect and strong,

Face to face, silent, draw

ing nigh and nigher, Until the lengthening wings

break into fire

At either curved point, what bitter

wrong

Can the earth do to us, that we should not long

Be here contented? Think! In mounting higher,

The angels would press on us and aspire

To drop some golden orb of perfect song

Into our deep, dear silence. Let us stay Rather on earth, Beloved,-where the unfit

Contrarious moods of men recoil away And isolate pure spirits, and permit

A place to stand and love in for a day, With darkness and the death-hour round

ing it.