THE HERMIT.

GEORGE ELIOT.

THERE was a holy hermit
Who counted all things loss
For Christ his Master's glory:
He made an ivory cross,
And as he knelt before it,
And wept his murdered Lord,

The ivory turned to iron,

The cross became a sword.

The tears that fell upon it,

They turned to red, red rust,
The tears that fell from off it
Made writing in the dust.
The holy hermit, gazing,

Saw words upon the ground:

"The sword be red forever

With the blood of false Mahound."

TIRED MOTHERS.

MAY RILEY SMITH,

A LITTLE elbow leans upon your knee,
Your tired knee, that has so much to bear;
A child's dear eyes are looking lovingly

From underneath a thatch of tangled hair. Perhaps you do not heed the velvet touch

Of warm, moist fingers, folding yours so tight; You do not prize this blessing over much, You almost are too tired to pray to-night.

But it is blessedness! A year ago

I did not see it as I do to-day,

We are so dull and thankless; and too slow
To catch the sunshine till it slips away.
And now it seems surpassing strange to me,
That, while I wore the badge of motherhood,
I did not kiss more oft, and tenderly,

The little child that brought me only good.

And if, some night when you sit down to rest,
You miss this elbow from your tired knee
This restless, curling head from off your breast,
This lisping tongue that chatters constantly;
If from your own the dimpled hands had slipped,
And ne'er would nestle in your palm again;
If the white feet into their grave had tripped,
I could not blame you for your heartache then!

I wonder so that mothers ever fret

At little children clinging at their gown;
Or that the footprints, when the days are wet,
Are ever black enough to make them frown.
If I could find a little muddy boot,

Or cap, or jacket, on my chamber floor;

If I could kiss a rosy, restless foot,

And hear it patter in my house once more;

If I could mend a broken cart to-day,

To-morrow make a kite, to reach the sky-
There is no woman in God's world could say

She was more blissfully content than I.
But ah! the dainty pillow next my own
Is never rumpled by a shining head;
My singing birdling from its nest is flown;
The little boy I used to kiss is dead!

EVEN IN A PALACE.

I.

MARCUS AURELIUS.

SUCH as are thy habitual thoughts, such also will be the character of thy mind; for the soul is dyed by the thoughts. Dye it then with a continuous series of such thoughts as these: for instance, that where a man can live, there he can also live well. But he must live in a palace: well, then, he can also live well in a palace.

EVEN IN A PALACE.

II.

MATTHEW ARNOLD.

"Even in a palace, life may be led well!"
So spake the imperial Sage, purest of men,
Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den

Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,

And drudge under some foolish master's ken,
Who rates us if we peer outside our pen-
Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?

"Even in a palace!" On his truth sincere
Who spoke those words no shadow ever came,
And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame,

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,
I'll stop, and say: "There were no succor here!
The aids to noble life are all within."

COMPLAINT OF THE BIRD IN A DARK ROOM.

JEAN PAUL RICHTER.

*

"AH!" sighed the imprisoned bird, "how unhappy were I in my eternal night, but for those melodious tones which sometimes make their way to me like beams of light from afar, and cheer my gloomy day. But I will myself repeat these heavenly melodies like an echo, until I have stamped them in my heart; and so I shall be able to comfort myself in my darkness!"

Thus spoke the little warbler and soon had learned the sweet airs that were sung to it with voice and instrument. That done, the curtain was raised; for the darkness had been purposely contrived to assist in its instruction. O man! how often dost thou complain of overshadowing grief and of darkness resting upon

thy days! And yet what cause for complaint, unless indeed thou hast failed to learn wisdom from suffering? Is not the whole sum of human life a veiling and an obscuring of the immortal spirit of man? Then first, when the fleshly curtain falls away, may it soar upward into a region of happier melodies!

THE BOY AND THE ANGEL.

ROBERT BROWNING.

MORNING, evening, noon, and night,
"Praise God!" sang Theocrite.

Then to his poor trade he turned,
Whereby the daily meal was earned.

Hard he labored, long and well:

O'er his work the boy's curls fell.

But ever, at each period,

He stopped and sang, "Praise God!"

Then back again his curls he threw,
And cheerful turned to work anew.

Said Blaise, the listening monk, "Well done;
I doubt not thou art heard, my son,

"As well as if thy voice to-day

Were praising God, the Pope's great way.