THE SKYLARK'S MESSAGE.

SWEET little upturned faces,

Poor little hands and feet,

Little eyes that are careworn and anxious From hunger and want in the street, Hear ye that skylark singing

Like an angel far away?

'Tis bringing to you a message

From the Golden Gates of day.

Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,

Down in the smoke of the city,

Down in the noise of the street!

But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest ;

Of a sun that shines for ever,

And the love of a Father's breast.

O poor little weary spirits,

I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,

And your journey may be long;
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.

I would that ye heard it always,

That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely

In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset

For the labouring hands and feet,
And a silence has fallen for ever

On the noise and the dust of the street.

LONDON, 1883.

A QUESTION.

O YE Wise of the Earth, are ye wise? "We can tell from a bone," ye say, "An animal's shape and size,

And the size and shape of its prey.""For such and such joint," say ye, "For such and such use must be." When I show that since time began

The soul hath longed for the skies, Ye say, "Death is the end of Man.”O ye Wise of the Earth, are ye wise?

ON DARWIN'S TOMB IN WEST

MINSTER ABBEY.

THE Muse, when asked what words alone
Were worthy tribute to his fame,

Took up her pen, and on the stone

LONDON, 1883.

Inscribed his name.

EPITAPH ON DR. JENNER.

IN sterner fight than Waterloo
He saved his hapless brothers;

Not by his own arm, it is true,

But by the arms of others.

H

WAHONOMIN.*

THE INDIAN'S JUBILEE HYMN TO THE QUEEN.

GREAT mother! from the depths of forest wilds,
From mountain pass and burning sunset plain,
We, thine unlettered children of the woods,
Upraise to thee the everlasting hymn

Of nature, language of the skies and seas,
Voice of the birds and sighings of the pine

In wintry wastes. We know none other tongue,
Nor the smooth speech that, like the shining leaves,
Hides the rough stems beneath.

We bring our song,

Wood-fragrant, rough, yet autumn-streaked with love,

And lay it as a tribute at thy feet.

But should it vex thee thus to hear us sing,

Sad in the universal joy that crowns

This year of years, and shouldst thou deem our voice

But death-cry of the ages that are past,

*Indian for a cry of lamentation.