Alas! to both the weary end,
The lonely heart, the absent friend;
Ah! pity me for this, dear heart!
One day, perchance, you'll recollect,
'Twas you had courage to reflect,
And I the strength to part!

SOMEBODY'S PRIDE.

PLUME on his helmet, and sword to the shoulder,
Sound the advance! Never call the retreat!
Some are as fair: not a man can look bolder,
Reining his charger to ride down the street.
Up with the windows! the regiment passes;
Glory will crown the old colors that droop;
Love lights the eyes and the lips of the lassies;
Somebody nods to the Pride of the Troop.

Dust on his helmet, and sword that is broken;
Sound the recall to the scattering men!
Victory wavers, with death for its token;
Hundreds return to us.
Where are the ten?
Lone in her chamber a maiden is weeping;
Eyes that have sparkled, with sorrow can droop;
Dead on the battle-field, heroes are sleeping;
Somebody prays for the Pride of the Troop.

Laurel on helmet, a sword that is rusted;
Gather the women, and marshal the men!
Honor is due to the soldiers we trusted;
Cheer for the hundred, but weep for the ten!
Out from the crowd a young maiden is lifted,—
Lifted on shoulders that gallantly stoop;
Tears are forgotten, and sorrow has drifted;
Somebody kisses the Pride of the Troop.

OR

ORLANDO R. BELLAMY.

RLANDO R. BELLAMY was born at the village of Vevay, Indiana, August 10, 1856. His father, Jesse P. Bellamy, was a farmer, with a family of nine children, of which Orlando is the youngest. His early life was spent on a farm. As a child he showed a fondness for music and poetry, reading Shakespeare through before his eighth year. He entered De Pauw University in 1874, at the age of eighteen, and graduated in 1878, standing first in his class in the course of study he pursued. He wrote a few short pieces of poetry while in college, but did not begin writing as a life work until in his twenty-eighth year. He has been engaged in teaching since his graduation; was at one time Professor of Mathematics and History in Pierce City Baptist College, but resigned on account of illhealth. He is at present connected with the schools of Independence, Kansas. His poems have appeared, from time to time, in different periodicals. Under the title of "Songs by the Wayside," a volume of his poems has just been published. MRS. A. B.

AT DAYBREAK.

AT daybreak when the somber angel Night
Calls in the many outposts of the skies,
Where tiny stars their nightly watch-fires keep
And through the holy depths of silence flies;
Ere the great golden heart of coming day

Has sent its throbs of light from pole to pole, What if the angels, through the crystal air, Should send their melodies to call my soul? At daybreak ere the hills are all aflame

With God's crown-jewels, given to the earth For dew-drops, and the sunlight form His name In wondrous beauty at each new day's birth; If you should speak in whispers in the room

And say, "His soul has gone to meet the light,” Could I reach out my hand amidst the gloom

And find that He watched with me all the night?

At daybreak while the wooded hills are mute,
And not a note of drowsy song is heard
To rise from nature's merry choristers,

Ere cloudy banners of the night are stirred
By morning's breath, should angels lift the veil
That separates our dreams from Glory's Land,
Could I dare raise my eyes through mists of prayer,
To dimly see the beckoning of His hand?

At daybreak when the light streams boldly in,
What if a face is lying still and cold?

The feet that oft have wearied in the day
Have met the Light beyond the hills of gold.
Then say, "Now rest is sweet that work is done,
We'll draw the white cloth up about his face,
To-day he will not care to greet the sun;
God calleth each to his allotted place."

DAWN.

FAINTER and softer grows the intense blue. The tiny stars, night's children, fall asleep. The timid twilight puts her torches out, While hands of angels from the crystal deep, Where they are hidden from our mortal eyes, The shifting scenery of Heaven roll On noiseless wheels. The glories of the night Dissolve and pass. The Dawn, a new-born soul, Lifts up its white arms as the purple light Flashes along the hilltops and the sea; The everlasting gates of morning turn While dew-drops blush to rubies as some tree, Far up a height, receives its crown of flame. The great sky watch-towers shut their holy eyes; The blue is fading softly into gray While Night, a giant, in deep slumber lies.

MORNING.

WHITE, white is the morning! The red fires of dawn

Are lost in the vapors

The light winds drive on.

The brown deer are sleeping
Where heather and broom,
Mix gold as of sunlight
With rich purple gloom.

The linnet and mavis

Weave music's sweet spell, The lark's morning hymns Of love's mysteries tell.

The roses of crimson, The roses of snow, Bend over the pathways Where glad lovers go.

Soft brown are the shallows, And blue are the deep Warm waves, wherein lilies The lake-fairies sleep.

The fire-flies are dreaming,

All night they have borne The lamps of these fairies;

But rest comes with morn.

The golden-eyed daisies
Are whispering low
To fox-glove and aster,

"Tis morning we know."

Dawn's white hands are closing

The bright dungeon bars, Where the night lies asleep 'Midst the weary-eyed stars.

Day's boat rides at anchor,

Its bright sails unfurled, To drift down the long

Western slope of the world.

Where waves of the sunset, By evening winds rolled, On sands of the cloudlands, Break crimson and gold.

Peace scatters her lilies

Beneath our worn feet, Love's white wings are folded, And life is complete.

Blue skies are above us;
What hour is so blest
As dawn after darkness
When hearts are at rest?

O'er fields of white clover, O'er green fields of corn, Blue eyes of my lover Bring joy with the morn.

I KNOW NOT WHERE.

I KNOW not where the pastures of the Lord
Are swept by cool winds, tempered from the heat;
Where His white flocks stray o'er the dewy sward
Or lie at rest about the Shepherd's feet.

I know not where His limpid streams are rolled,
Or where His islands break the crystal sea,
Or tiny lambs lost from this nether fold
In safest shelter of His keeping be.

I know not when the gardens of the Lord Bear grapes of Eschol under shining skies, Where milk and honey their supplies afford And all the fruits of man's lost Paradise;

Or where the breezes blow o'er rosy isles With untold blessings in their airy wings, Or where each hill in endless verdure smiles, Or life's deep river has its hidden springs.

I know not where His skillful harpers stand
Whose chords are ringing all the Heavens through,
Their echoes coming from the Far-off Land,

Fall faint, yet clear, down star-lit vaults of blue;
Or when the clouds drift by on purple eves
In what fair port their snowy sails are furled;
Or where His harvests lift their golden sheaves
Beyond the utmost borders of the world.

I know not where the soiled and blood-stained feet Of weary pilgrims lay their sandals down;

Or where life's broken links forever meet,

Or where its rugged cross becomes a crown. Nor where the rushing music of the spheres

Is blended with man's prayer and praise and song Like that the Morning Stars in earlier years Sang with the angels as they swept along.

But this I know, that somewhere there is rest
And that the poor their heritage shall find;
The pure in heart shall lean upon His breast
'Midst views of matchless beauty for the blind.
The gales of Heaven drift us to that shore
Where stainless lilies fringe the waterside.
There, with the meek and lowly evermore,
We shall awaken, rested, satisfied.

FLOWERS.

Then the Dear Lord kissed the flowers
And His blessings gave to all,

And up came the green leaves springing,
To answer the wild bird's call.
So I wrote their dreams on the pages
That are hidden within my heart,
And their music and mirth and sadness
Of my own life form a part.
-Dreams of the Flowers.
SEPTEMBER.

September, in a blaze of white and gold,
Blending the sunshine with the hazy mist
That shrouds the hills like sacrificial smoke,
With paler waves of light our lips has kissed
Than burning August's passionate embrace.
Yet have its skies a dearer, softer blue,
The golden month of all the shining twelve,
Because, long years ago, it brought me you.
-September.