statesmen of England were ignobly forced from power, with the loss of public confidence, and they sunk into retirement with the maledictions of the people resting upon their names. America applauds the deeds and cherishes the fame of her leaders in that contest, England strives to forget the deeds of her leaders, and neglects their fame. While America, to-day, utters the names of Washington and Franklin, Adams and Jefferson, Otis and Henry, Quincy, Jay, Warren, Sherman, Hancock, Samuel Adams, and their illustrious associates, with affectionate regard and profound reverence, England, if she recalls at all the dimmed names of North, Grenville, Grafton, Dartmouth, Sandwich, Wedderburn, and their haughty compeers, she reproaches their memories with the folly and madness which lost America to the British Empire. America remembers and hallows even the battlefields of defeat, for the blood of her sons, who fell on those lost fields, was shed for freedom and independence; England strives not to remember even her battle-fields of victory, for they were won in support of a lost cause, and brought neither power nor glory.

THE TIMES.-By G. W. Lyon.

O Liberty through ages past,

What struggles thou hast won and lost,
What trophies raised and structures vast,
That blood untold and treasures cost,
But doomed to crumble and decay
In mournful immortality.

Along thy course from Orient,

The solar orb thy guide of fire,

What mountains scaled and oceans rent

To reach this land of thy desire,

This farthest clime Hesperian,

Where all thy wanderings are done!

From Tyranny's usurping sway,

Thy feet unsandalled touched this strand,

Columbia's wild untrodden way

Inclosed with seas sublime and grand,
Where, unrestrained, a home might be
Devoted to the brave and free.

And thus from out this wilderness,

By wisdom wrought, a dwelling new
Uprose, designed the World to bless
As its unfolding glories grew,
Of sister States in Union bands,
Like Banyan tree that wide expands.

With starry ensign at its height,

And shining symbols hung around,
The nations saw its rising light,

While despotism feared profound;
With leaping heart humanity
Beheld the dawning joyfully.

THE TIMES.

And murmurs swelled to clamors loud About the thrones of monarchs pale, "Reform!" the cry, unwilling bowed

Their haughty heads to fate's assail, And granted much, demands increased, By yielding more their reign had ceased. And refluent, resistless rolled

A tide of indignation just,

And wrath, o'er kingdoms, empires old,
And sepulchred low in the dust,
No more to rise, emblems of might,

Their crowns and sceptres changed for right.

Thy mission such, O Liberty!

For which was reared thy temple here,

So towering with prosperity;

But what are these that strange appear
Within, as spectres dark and grim,
The glory of its light to dim?

Like shadows flitting on its walls,

Or serpents hissing round its shrine? What? but corruption in its halls,

And traitors masked with full design, Awaiting the assassin's hour

To strike the blow for pelf and power!

Alas! my country, once so blest,

Art thou destined to fall a prey
Like Greece and Rome, the last and best
Experiment of rightful sway?

And night close in without a ray
To reillume where erst was day?
Thou Bethlehem across the main,
The hope of millions yet to be,
Shall the oppressed of earth in vain,
With arms extended, plead for thee?
Their weary hearts congeal with fear,
And wilt thou not their voices hear?

United with the eloquence,

Though mute, from every hallowed grave, Where patriots in brave defence,

Their precious lives so freely gave?

Is famed Demosthenes so dead?

Sweet Tully's gore so lightly shed?

Americans! awake! arise!

Such dread impending doom avert; To duty, ere destruction flies

And freedom's citadel subvert! Restore the tomb of Washington! Unfurl the flag he gazed upon!

To what our charter great requires,

Redeem this wide domain ye tread, 'Tis crimson with the blood of sires Who fell, and slumber in its bed! The tumulus on Marathon

Less sacred, though with glory won!

The Cæsar's martial glitter scorn,

The purple robes which enwrapped power,

Exchange not modest mantles worn

Through Freedom's dark and trying hour.
Their city stood on seven hills-
Its ruins now the Tiber fills.

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To God, yourselves, and country true,
Fulfil your high prerogative;
Guard well your household, and renew
Your altar fires with love, and live
A future splendid to record!
Your merited and sure reward!

THE LEGEND OF SKADI.-Bayard Taylor.

Through the leaves of the Edder there rustles a tale
Of Skadi, the daughter of torrent and gale,
Who, leaving her snow-summits, breezy and free,
Went down to be wedded to Njord of the sea.

Though bright was the ocean as now, in the day
When Vanier and Esir held nature in sway-

Of gods though her bridegroom was reckoned the third,
In Skadi's new mansion a murmur was heard.

"O Njord, I am homesick! the gull's tiresome note,
The moan of the breakers, the tide's endless rote,
They hold my eyes sleepless; I never can stay
By the wild-staring ocean. Come, let us away!

"Away to the mountains, my home in the height,
To the glens and the gorges, the summit of light!"
And Njord would listen, and go with his bride;
But there for his sea-haunts he dreamily sighed.

"O Skadi, come back to the warm, sunny surf;
The beach-sand is smoother than frost-bitten turf;
I like not, at midnight, the wolf's hungry howl,
The bear's stealthy footstep, the shriek of the owl.

"Nine sunsets, my Skadi, from sole love of thee,
I will give to the mountains, if only for three
With me thou wilt linger the blue waves beside;
The billows shall lull thee, my wild one, my bride!"

Then down the steep gorges went Skadi and Njord;
Like wind through the pine-woods they swept to the fiord,
And back in three mornings they hurried again,
Bearing up to the hill-tops the sigh of the main.

So hither and thither awhile swayed the pair;
But Njord sickened soon of the fresh inland air,
And once as he scented afar the salt sea,

No more of the mountains," he shouted, "for me!"

"I am nine times too weary of cavern and cliff;
All the pine-groves of Norway I'd give for my skiff.
The twilight that buries the white, solemn hills,
My blood like the coming of Ragnarok chills! "

"Three days and three nights are too many for me
To waste on the ocean, O dull Njord, and thee!"
And Skadi has buckled her snow-sandals on,
And back to her mountains alone she has gone.

The red climbing sunrise, the rosy-fringed mist,

Stealing up from the valley, her clear cheek have kissed;

And over the hill-tops the frosty blue sky

With the joy of its welcome rekindles her eye.

DO YOUR BEST.

She tightens her bowstring, she bounds from the rock;
The elves in their caverns her merry voice mock.
The waterfalls rush to the turn by the crag,
And the leap of the reindeer behind her doth lag.

But still, as she chases the wolf and the boar,
By sounds she is startled, like surf on the shore,
That surge through the forest and whisper and rave;
'Tis Njord, who is calling her back to the wave.

And Njord hears a hill-note born in on the tide,
When soft through the sunset the lazy waves glide,
Or tranced in the moonlight the weird water shines;
'Tis Skadi, whose singing floats down through the pines.

He calls, but she leaves not her rock-ranges free:
She chants from her woodlands; he stays by the sea;
A wail thrills the harp-strings of heart lost to heart,
Neither happy together, nor joyous apart.

Of sea-god and hill-maid remains not a sign,
Save the marriage of music in billow and pine.

Still sound the Norse mountains, the tide in the fiord,
With the singing of Skadi, the echo of Njord.

DO YOUR BEST.-George Wood, LL.D.

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The

You may resolve to do much with the smiles of Providence ; but remember the call for courage and manly endeavor is the loudest, not in the swelling tide of victory, but when the enemy is rushing upon you like a flood, scattering your forces like chaff before the wind. Do with your might whatsoever your hands find to do, whether it seems small or great. Do something well. Be no counterfeit-no pretender. If you cannot wash in Abana and Pharpar, wash in Jordan. If you cannot do what the world calls great, do a small thing well, and it may prove great. dew-drop falling into the sea may seem lost, but, received into a shell, it may grow into a shell of marvellous beauty. Be a master of your business. Better, far better be a skilful mechanic or an intelligent farmer, than a third-rate lawyer or physician. Remember that the lower story of every trade and profession is full; the upper wants occupants. Quit yourselves like men in the great struggle of life." Whatever may be your calling or profession, be not a Gideonite; be a workman that "needeth not to be ashamed."

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"See to it that each hour's feelings and thoughts and actions are pure and true; then will your life be such. The mightiest maze of magnificent harmonies that ever a Beethoven gave to the world is but single notes, and all its complicated and interlacing strains are resolvable into individualities. The wide pasture is but separate spears of grass; the sheeted bloom of the prairies but isolated flowers."

Do not forget that the greatest heroes, after all, when the fina.

record shall be opened, will be found to be often the humble and unhonored of earth; and many of the world's heroes will show only a record of selfishness, sordid ambition, dishonesty, and hollow-heartedness. God's ways are not as our ways, and his thoughts not as our thoughts. He will take into his account the whole life, the inner and the outer, the private and the public, and not simply a few dazzling deeds, which a kind fortune made illustrious. He will regard not so much what you have won for yourselves, as what you have given to others. Strive, then, by self-denial and self-sacrifice in little things, to comprehend in some measure the blessedness of a life like His who' came not to be ministered unto, but to minister."

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Thus will you secure for the evening of your days serenity and true enjoyment, and when the river shall be passed may it be said of you :

:

"But round his grave are quietude and beauty;

And the sweet heaven above,

The fitting emblems of a life of duty
Transfigured into love."

THE MEN.-Bishop Doane.

The men to make a State must be intelligent men. I do not mean that they must know that two and two make four, or that six per cent. a year is half per cent. a month. I take a wider and

a higher range. I limit myself to no mere utilitarian intelligence. This has its place. And this will come almost unsought. The contact of the rough and rugged world will force men to it in self-defence. The lust of worldly gain will drag men to it for self-aggrandizement. But men so made will never make a State. The intelligence which that demands will take a wider and a higher range. Its study will be man. It will make history its cheap experience. It will read hearts. It will know men. It will first know itself. What else can govern men? Who else can know the men to govern men? The right of suffrage is a fearful thing. It calls for wisdom, and discretion, and intelligence of no ordinary standard. It takes in, at every exercise, the interests of all the nation. Its results reach forward through time into eternity. Its discharge must be accounted for among the dread responsibilities of the great day of judgment. Who will go to it blindly? Who will go to it passionately? Who will go to it as a sycophant, a tool, a slave? How many do! These are not the men to make a State.

The men to make a State must be honest men. men that would never steal. to cheat in making change. mean men with a single eye.

I do not mean I do not mean men that would scorn I mean men with a single face. I I mean men with a single tongue.