THE DYING SWAN.
I.

THE plain was grassy, wild and bare,
Wide, wild, and open to the air,
Which had built up everywhere

An under-roof of doleful gray.
With an inner voice the river ran,
Adown it floated a dying swan,

And loudly did lament.
It was the middle of the day.
Ever the weary wind went on,
And took the reed-tops as it went.
II.

Some blue peaks in the distance rose,
And white against the cold-white sky,
Shone out their crowning snows.

One willow over the river wept,
And shook the wave as the wind did sigh;
Above in the wind was the swallow,

Chasing itself at its own wild will,
And far thro' the marish green and still
The tangled water-courses slept,

Shot over with purple, and green, and yellow.

III.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul
Of that waste place with joy

Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear

The warble was low, and full and clear;
And floating about the under-sky,
Prevailing in weakness, the coronach stole
Sometimes afar, and sometimes anear;
But anon her awful jubilant voice,
With a music strange and manifold,
Flow'd forth on a carol free and bold;

As when a mighty people rejoice

With shawms and with cymbals, and harps of gold,
And the tumult of their acclaim is roll'd
Thro' the open gates of the city afar,
To the shepherd who watcheth the evening star.
And the creeping mosses and clambering weeds,
And the willow-branches hoar and dank,
And the wavy swell of the soughing reeds,
And the wave-worn horns of the echoing bank,
And the silvery marish-flowers that throng
The desolate creeks and pools among,
Were flooded over with eddying song.

ALFRED TENNYSON.

RIPE WHEAT.

WE bent to-day o'er a coffined form,
And our tears fell softly down;
We looked our last on the aged face,
With its look of peace, its patient grace,
And hair like a silver crown.

We touched our own to the clay-cold hands,
From life's long labor at rest;
And among the blossoms white and sweet,
We noted a bunch of golden wheat,
Clasped close to the silent breast.

The blossoms whispered of fadeless bloom,
Of a land where fall no tears;
The ripe wheat told of toil and care,
The patient waiting, the trusting prayer,
The garnered good of the years.

We knew not what work her hands had found, What rugged places at her feet;

What cross was hers, what blackness of night; We saw but the peace, the blossoms white, And the bunch of ripened wheat.

As each goes up from the field of earth,
Bearing the treasures of life,
God looks for some gathered grain of good,

From the ripe harvest that shining stood, But waiting the reaper's knife.

Then labor well, that in death you go

Not only with blossoms sweet,

Not bent with doubt and burdened with fears,

And dead, dry husks of the wasted years,

But laden with golden wheat.

ELIZA O. PEIRSON.

THE WORLD WOULD BE THE BETTER FOR IT.

IF men cared less for wealth and fame, .
And less for battle-fields and glory,

If writ in human hearts a name
Seemed better than in song or story;

If men instead of nursing pride
Would learn to hate it and abhor it,
If more relied

On Love to guide,

The world would be the better for it.

If men dealt less in stocks and lands,
And more in bonds and deeds fraternal,
If Love's work had more willing hands
To link this world with the supernal;
If men stored up Love's oil and wine
And on bruised human hearts would pour it,
If "yours" and "mine"

Would once combine,

The world would be the better for it.

If more would act the play of Life,
And fewer spoil it in rehearsal;
If Bigotry would sheath its knife,

Till good became more universal; If Custom, gray with ages grown, Had fewer blind men to adore it,— If Talent shone

In Truth alone,

The world would be the better for it.

If men were wise in little things-
Affecting less in all their dealings;
If hearts had fewer rusted strings

To isolate their kindred feelings;

If men, when Wrong beats down the Right,
Would strike together to restore it,-
If Right made Might

In every fight,

The world would be the better for it.

M. H. COBB.

HELEN OF TROY.

LONG years ago he bore to a land beyond the sea, To a city fair and stately, that renowned must ever be

Through all ages yet to follow, for the light shed there by me.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

They have told me not a roof-tree nor a wall is standing now,

That o'erthrown is the great altar, where ten thousand once did bow,

While on high to Aphrodite rose the solemn hymn and vow.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

Do they deem thus the story of my life will pass away?

Troy betrayed, and all who loved me slain upon that fatal day,

Shall but make the memory of me evermore with men to stay.

I am Helen; where is Troy?

Fools! to dream that time can ever make the tale of Troy grow old;

Buried now is every hero, and the grass green o'er the mold.

But of her they fought and died for, every age shall yet be told.

I am Helen; where is Troy?
FLORENCE PEACOCK.

AFTER THE FALL OF TROY.

TROY has fallen; and never will be
War like the war that was waged for me.
Could I but have those ten years back again
With the love, and the glory, the pleasure like pain,
The clash of arms, and the din of the fight,
The feasting and music, the color and light;
Yet, mixed with it all, there sounded to me
Ever a moan from the far-off sea.

There still remains this for all time to be:
The war of the world was fought for me.
Give them no pity who died for me there,
Men can never more die for a face so fair.
And what does it matter that now they lie,
Quiet and silent beneath the sky?
Remember that none evermore can be

Back for those years in Troy with me.
FLORENCE PEACOCK.