What seemed thy loss will often prove To be thy truest gain:

And sufferings borne with patient love
A jeweled crown obtain.

By this thou wilt the angels please,
Wilt glorify the Lord,

Thy neighbor's faith and hope increase,
And earn a rich reward.

Brief is this life, and brief its pain,
But long the bliss to come;

Trials endured for Christ attain
A place with martyrdom.

The Christian soul by patience grows
More perfect day by day;

And brighter still, and brighter glows
With heaven's eternal ray;

To Christ becomes more lovable,
More like the saints on high;

Dear to the good; invincible
Against the enemy.

MAY KENDALL.

MAY KENDALL, born at Bridlington, Yorkshire, 1861, author of "From a Garret," "White Poppies," "Such is Life," "Dreams to Sell" (1887), “Songs from Dreamland" (1894); “Judy” (1896).

A THEORY.

WHY do violins shudder so,

When across them is drawn the bow,
Sob for anguish and wild despair?
Human souls are imprisoned there.

Souls are shut in the violins,
They are the souls of Philistines;
But the Philistines, row on row,
Soulless sit and they do not know.
But they brandish their eye-glasses,
Stare at each other's evening dress,
Scrutinize form or brilliant hue,
Say: "Is it rouge or is it true?"
"Some one was flat a semitone,
And how stout the soprano's grown!
Isn't the bass a dear? and oh,
Do look at Mrs. So-and-so!"

Still the musicians play serene,
As though Philistines had not been,
But their souls in the violins
Mourn on bitterly for their sins,

Call them wildly and call in pain,

Call them with longing deep and vain,

And with infinite tenderness,

Since they can give them no redress.

Since not one of them is aware,

Here is he and his soul is there,
In the music's divinest chord,
Making melody to the Lord.

You're parables of sun and snow,
And moon and sky and star."

But presently doubtful awe
Disturbed his idle scorn;
For each familiar face he saw
Was sorrowful and worn.

Ladies and wizards, knights and elves,
They moaned: "Bad luck to you,
We only know we're not ourselves,
We cannot tell who's who."

The enchanted prince, at Beauty's side,
Seemed solacing her ire.

"Too bad," dejectedly he cried:

"One of you calls her Fire;

"And there's another calls her Snow;
She says, till she is told

Her meaning, how is she to know
If she is hot or cold?"

With weary steps they wandered by:

"We were quite wrong," they said. "You're not a prince - not Beauty I; We might as well be dead!"

Slowly dispersed the vanquished throng, Faded the raiment bright;

VOL. XIII.

It was as though a mournful song
Came floating through the night.

"We're dead and gone.

Our stories grew

From how our names were spelt.
If some one made a myth of you,
You'd find out how it felt.

""Tis all in vain. We're Dawn or Day,
We're Sun or Sea or Air.

Only you might have let us stay

Till you knew what we were."

THE MAGIC MIRROR.

DIM clouds across the field there float,
And shadows slowly form, combine,
And gather shape. A tiny boat

I see, tossed in the foaming brine.
O rower, wait! Brave rower, stay!
Nay, boat and rower fade away.
Again the dim clouds gather o'er,

And slowly shape a battle-field,
And, dead or living, wounded sore,

One lies beside a broken shield.
O warrior, canst thou heed or hear?
Nay, for the visions disappear.
Fling down the shining surface bare;
An idle tale it tells to me.

The shadowy form I image there

I trace in earth and air and sea.
Earth, sea, and air, from pole to pole,
The magic mirror of my soul !

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY.

FRANCIS SCOTT KEY, an American lawyer and poet, born in Frederick County, Md., Aug. 1, 1779; died in Washington, D.C., Jan. 11, 1843. He was educated at St. John's College, Annapolis, studied law and began practice in his native county, but subsequently removed to Washington, where he became District Attorney for the District of Columbia. When the British troops invaded Washington in 1814, they seized and held as a prisoner Dr. William Beanes, and Key was sent by President Madison with a flag of truce to the British General Ross to negotiate for his release. The mission was successful, but he was detained by the British commander, who had prepared to attack Baltimore. The engagement began with the bombardment of Fort Henry, near the city, and was witnessed by Key. Under the tension of patriotism and anxiety for the fate of the fort, Key wrote the ever-since popular national song, "The Star-Spangled Banner." The song was at once published and sung to the tune " Anacreon in Heaven," and became popular throughout the country. A collection of Key's poems was published in 1857, but none of the others attracted attention.

THE STAR-SPANGLED BANNER.

O SAY, can you see, by the dawn's early light,

What so proudly we hail'd at the twilight's last gleaming Whose broad stripes and bright stars, through the clouds of the fight,

O'er the ramparts we watched were so gallantly streaming?

And the rockets' red glare, the bombs bursting in air,

Gave proof, through the night, that our flag was still there.
O say, does that Star-spangled Banner yet wave
O'er the land of the free and the home of the brave?

On that shore, dimly seen through the mists of the deep,
Where the foe's haughty host in dread silence reposes,
What is that which the breeze, o'er the towering steep,
As it fitfully blows, now conceals, now discloses ?