Far off-worlds off-in the Pleiads seven

Is a Star of Stars-Alcyone

The orb which moves never in all the Heaven
The centre of all sweet Light we see.

And there, thou Shadow of Earth's pale seeming!
The wisest say no shadow can be,

But perfect splendors, lucidly streaming,
And Life and Light at intensity.

Then why did the artist show it thus-
The Sorrow of Sorrows personified-
Painting the carpenter's Son for us

And the Shadow behind of the Crucified?

Meek and sweet in the sun He stands,
Drinking the air of His Syrian skies;
Lifting to heaven toil-wearied hands,
Seeing "His Father" with those mild eyes;

Gazing from trestle and bench and saw,
To the Kingdom kept for His rule above.
O Christ, the Lord! we see with awe!
Ah! Joseph's Son! we look with love!

Ah! Mary Mother! we watch with moans
Marking that phantom thy sweet eyes see,
That hateful Shadow upon the stones,
That sign of a coming agony!

Did it happen so once in Nazareth?

Did a Christmas sun show such a sight,

Making from Life a spectre of Death,

Mocking our "Light of the World" with Light?

He tells us this artist-one Christmas-tide,
The sunset painted that ominous Cross;
The shadows of evening prophesied

The hyssop to Him, and to us the loss.

For, her pang is the pang of us, every one:
Wherever the Light shines the Shadow is;
Where beams a smile must be heard a moan;
The anguish follows the flying bliss.

Yon crown which the Magi brought to her,
It makes a vision of brows that bleed;
Yon censer of spikenard and balm and myrrh,
It looks on the wall like a

sponge and reed."

And, therefore, long ago was it written

Of a Christmas to come in the realms of Light— "The curse shall depart and death shall be smitten, And then there shall be no more night."

O Christ, our Lord, in that Shadowless Land,
Be mindful of these sad shadows which lie!
Look forth and mark what a woful band
Of glooms attend us across Thy sky!

"Christmas!" and hear what wars and woe! "Christmas!" and see what grief o'er all! Lord Christ! our suns shine out to show Crosses and thorns on Time's old wall!

So, if Thou art where that star gleams,
Alcyone, or higher still,

Send down one blessed ray which beams

Free of all shadows-for they kill.

EDWIN ARNOLD.

E

UTILIZING OUR FAILURES.

Permission of "The Outlook," New York.

VERY man or woman who feels the responsibility of making the best use of opportunities, and who has high standards of work, feels at times a great depression from a sense of falling below the level of occasions and of doing the worst when the occasion called for the best. It happens very often to such persons that, after the most thorough preparation, the performance falls lamentably below the aim and leaves behind it a sense of utter disappointment. This humiliation of spirit, which is the lot at times of all sensitive people who care more for their work than for themselves, may either become a source of weakness or a source of strength. It is the evidence of the divine possibilities of life that the defeats of to-day may be made the forerunners of the victories of to-morrow, and that the consciousness of failure may become in itself a new element of success. It was said of Peter the Great that he learned the art of war at the hand of his enemies, and that he was taught how to win victories by suffering a long and discouraging series of defeats. To say this of a man is to pay him the very highest tribute. As a student in the great school of life, it is to credit him with that openness of mind, that forgetfulness of self, and that absence of personal vanity which characterize the true learner in any field. For failure, if it comes through no fault of our own, drives us back upon our hold on ultimate aims. It makes us aware how variable and uncertain is our own strength, and it teaches us to rely, not upon ourselves, but upon the greatness of the things with which we identify ourselves. A great object persistently pursued has power to unfold a noble out of a very commonplace man or woman, and to develop an almost unsuspected

strength out of a mass of weakness. The shocks to our pride drive us out of ourselves into the greatness of the causes which we espouse; and the defeats which we suffer, if we take them aright, confirm us in our loyalty to the things for which we fight. It is painful to fail when we have made every preparation to succeed; it is humiliating to produce an impression of weakness when we wish to make an impression of strength; but the supreme thing in life is to get our work done and to make the truth which we love prevail; and if the discipline of failure can be made to work for this end, it is a discipline neither to be dreaded nor to be avoided.

LYMAN ABBOTT.

O-U-G-H.

I'M taught p-l-o-u-g-h

Shall be pronounce " plow:"

'Zat's easy wen you know," I say;
"Mon Anglais I'll get through."

My teacher say zat in zat case
O-u-g-h is "o0."

And zen I laugh and say to him,
"Zees Anglais makes me cough."

He say, "Not coo, but in zat word
O-u-g-h is 'off.'"

Oh! sacre bleu! such varied sounds
Of words make me hiccough!

He say, "Again, mon friend ees wrong!
O-u-g-h is 'up'

In hiccough." Zen I cry, "No more!

You make my throat feel rough."

"Non! non!" he cry, "you are not right—
O-u-g-h is 'uff.''

"In time you'll learn, but now you're wrong,

O-u-g-h is 'owe." "

"I'll try no more. I sall go mad-
I'll drown me in ze lough!"

"But ere you drown yourself," said he,

He taught no more! I held him fast!
And killed him wiz a rough!

CHARLES B. Loomis.

DESTRUCTION OF POMPEII.

(From "Last Days of Pompeii.")

HE cloud, which had scattered so deep a murkiness

THE

over the day, had now settled into a solid and impenetrable mass. It resembled less even the thickest gloom of a night in the open air than the close and blind darkness of some narrow room. But in proportion as the blackness gathered, did the lightnings around Vesuvius increase in their vivid and scorching glare. Nor was their horrible beauty confined to the usual hues of fire; no rainbow ever rivalled their varying and prodigal dyes. Now brightly blue as the most azure depth of a southern sky— now of a livid and snake-like green, darting restlessly to and fro as the folds of an enormous serpent-now of a lurid and intolerable crimson, gushing forth through the columns of smoke, far and wide, and lighting up the whole city from arch to arch-then suddenly dying into a sickly paleness, like the ghost of their own life!