And puts at last beneath his feet
His passions base and low;
And stands erect in manhood's might
Undaunted, undismayed-

The bravest man that drew a sword
In foray or in raid.

It calls for something more than brawn
Or muscle to o'ercome

An enemy, who marched not

With waving plume and drum―

A foe forever lurking nigh,

With silent, stealthy tread
Forever near your board by day,
At night beside your bed.

All honor, then, to that brave heart,
Though poor or rich he be,
Who struggles with the baser part,
Who conquers and is free;
He may not wear a hero's crown,

Or fill a hero's grave;

But truth will place his name among

The bravest of the brave.

MORNING GLORIES.

THEY said, "Don't plant them, mother; they're so

common and so poor;"

But of seeds I had no other, so I dropped them by the door;

And they soon were brightly growing in the rich and teeming soil, Stretching upward, upward, upward, to reward me for my toil.

They grew all o'er the casement, and they wreathed around the door,

All about the chamber windows, upward, upward, ever

more;

And each dawn in glowing beauty, glistening in the early dew,

Is the house all wreathed in splendor, every morning bright and new.

What if they close at midday, 'tis because their work is done,

And they shut their crimson petals from the kisses f

the sun,

Teaching every day their lesson to my weary, pan.ng soul,

To be faithful in well-doing, stretching upward for the

goal.

Sending out the climbing tendrils, trusting God for strength and power,

To support, and aid and comfort, in the trying day and

hour;

Never spurn the thing that's common, nor call these home flowers poor,

For each hath a holy mission, like my glory o'er the door.

EXAMPLE.

E scatter seeds with careless hand,

WE

And dream we ne'er shall see them more: But for a thousand years

Their fruit appears,

In weeds that mar the land

Or healthful store.

The deeds we do, the words we say,

Into still air they seem to fleet;

We count them ever past;
But they shall last—

In the dread judgment they
And we shall meet.

I charge thee by the years gone by,
For the love of brethren dear,

Keep, then, the one true way
In work and play,

Lest in the world their cry

Of woe thou hear.

KEBLE.

NOT LOST.

THE look of sympathy, the gentle word

Spoken so low that only angels heard;

The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,

Unseen by men but marked by angels' eyes —

These are not lost.

The sacred music of a tender strain

Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain,
And chanted timidly, with doubt and fear,
To busy crowds who scarcely pause to hear,
It is not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of night
Over soiled robes that once were pure and white;
The prayers that rise like incense from the soul,
Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole.
These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,
When dreams had less of self and more of truth;
The childlike faith so tranquil and so sweet,
Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet;
These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good,
So seldom guessed, so little understood ;
The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win
Some wanderer from the woeful ways of sin;
These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord, for in Thy city bright,
Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light;
And things long hidden from our gaze below,
Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know
They were not lost.

SARAH DOUDNEY,

THE OLD YEAR.

AST night, when all the village Was lying white and still, With starlight in the valley, With moonlight on the hill, I wakened from my dreaming, And hushed my heart to hear The old clock on the steeple Toll out the dying year.

They say that when the angels
The blesséd New Year brings,
The souls that wake to listen
Can hear them softly sing
The same melodious anthem

Of peace and love on earth,
That told to Judah's shepherds
The dear Redeemer's birth.

No sound came through the silence,
But waiting there, I thought

Of all the gifts and blessings
The year to me had brought:
And something sang within me.
"O happy heart! to-day
Remember all who sorrow,
And wipe their tears away."

So, in that solemn morning

When first thy feet shall stand,