When the blood-bought laurels of the field
Beneath Time's touch shall die,

Ye nameless ones of earth shall shine
In Heaven eternally!

In that all-glorious land beyond
The grave's dark wilderness,
Where titles, riches, sounding names,

Sink into nothingness,

The wretched beggar's tatter'd garb,

By honest virtue worn,

Shall laugh the crime-stain'd diadems

Of guilty kings to scorn.

ANONYMOUS.

THE BEAUTIFUL.

WALK with the Beautiful and with the Grand,
Let nothing on the earth thy feet deter;
Sorrow may lead thee weeping by the hand,
But give not all thy bosom-thoughts to her :
Walk with the Beautiful.

I hear thee say,

"The Beautiful! what is it?"

Oh, thou art darkly ignorant! Be sure

'Tis no long weary road its form to visit,

For thou canst make it smile beside thy door:

Then love the Beautiful!

Ay, love it! 'tis a sister that will bless,

And teach thee patience when the heart is lonely; The angels love it, for they wear its dress, And thou art made a little lower only:

Then love the Beautiful!

Sigh for it!--clasp it when 'tis in thy way,
Be its idolater, as of a maiden!

Thy parents bend to it, and more than they;
Be thou its worshipper. Another Eden

Comes with the Beautiful!

Some boast its presence in a Grecian face;
Some, on a favourite warbler of the skies:
But be not fool'd! where'er thine eye might trace,
Seeking the Beautiful, it will arise:

Then seek it everywhere.

Thy bosom is its mint, the workmen are

Thy thoughts, and they must coin for thee: believing

The Beautiful exists in every star,

Thou makest it so; and art thyself deceiving,

If otherwise thy faith.

Thou seest Beauty in the violet's cup.

I'll teach thee miracles! Walk on this heath,
And say to the neglected flower, "Look up,
And be thou Beautiful!" If thou hast faith,

It will obey thy word.

One thing I warn thee: bow no knee to gold;
Less innocent it makes the guileless tongue;
It turns the feelings prematurely old;

And they who keep their best affections young
Best love the Beautiful.

E. H. BURRINGTON, 1848.

STRIVE, WAIT, AND PRAY.

STRIVE; yet I do not promise

The prize you dream of to-day
Will not fade when you think to grasp it,
And melt in your hand away;
But another and holier treasure,
You would now perchance disdain,
Will come when your toil is over,
And pay you for all your pain.

Wait; yet I do not tell you

The hour you long for now

Will not come with its radiance vanish'd
And a shadow upon its brow;
Yet far through the misty future,
With a crown of starry light,
An hour of joy you know not

Is winging her silent flight.

Pray; though the gift you ask for
May never comfort your fears,
May never repay your pleading,
Yet pray, and with hopeful tears;
An answer, not that you long for,
But diviner, will come one day;
Your eyes are too dim to see it,
Yet strive, and wait, and pray!
ADELAIDE ANNE PROCTER, 1826-1864.