IX.

O crushed, but invincible city!

O broken, but fast-rising city!

O glorious, but unconquered city,

Still Queen of the North and the West!

The long, golden years of the future, with treasures increasing and rare, Shall glisten upon thy rich garments-shall twine in the folds of thy

hair!

From out the black heaps of thy ruins new columns of beauty shall rise,

And glittering domes shall fling grandly our nation's proud flag to the skies!

From off the wide praries of splendor the treasures of Autumn shall

pour,

The breezes shall sweep from the Northward, and hurry the ships to thy shore !

For Heaven will look downward in mercy on those who've passed under the rod,

And happ❜ly again they will prosper, and bask in the blessings of God. Once more thou dost stand mid the cities, by prosperous breezes caressed,

O, grand and unconquered Chicago, still Queen of the North and the West!

WILL M. Carleton.

NOBODY'S CHILD.

[This should be rendered in the tender, pathetic voice of a child, and, when so given, it is exquisitely beautiful. The sad, touching voice should kindle with expectation at the close.]

Alone in the dreary, pitiless street,

With my torn old dress, and bare, cold feet,
All day have I wandered to and fro,
Hungry and shivering, and nowhere to go;
The night's coming on in darkness and dread,
And the chill sleet beating upon my bare head.
Oh! why does the wind blow upon me so wild?
Is it because I am nobody's child?

Just over the way there's a flood of light,

And warmth, and beauty, and all things bright;
Beautiful children, in robes so fair,

Are caroling songs in their rapture there.
I wonder if they, in their blissful glee,
Would pity a poor little beggar like me,
Wandering alone in the merciless street,
Naked and shivering, and nothing to eat?

Oh! what shall I do when the night comes down
In its terrible blackness all over the town?
Shall I lay me down 'neath the angry sky,

On the cold, hard pavement, alone to die,

When the beautiful children their prayers have said,

And their mammas have tucked them up snugly in bed? For no dear mother on me ever smiled.

Why is it, I wonder, I'm nobody's child?

No father, no mother, no sister, not one

In all the world loves me, e'en the little dogs run
When I wander too near them; 'tis wondrous to see
How everything shrinks from a beggar like me!
Perhaps 'tis a dream; but sometimes, when I lie
Gazing far up in the dark blue sky,
Watching for hours some large bright star,
I fancy the beautiful gates are ajar,

And a host of white-robed, nameless things,
Come fluttering o'er me on gilded wings;
A hand that is strangely soft and fair

Caresses gently my tangled hair,

And a voice like the carol of some wild bird

The sweetest voice that was ever heard

Calls me many a dear, pet name,

Till my heart and spirit are all aflame.

They tell me of such unbounded love,
And bid me come up to their home above;
And then with such pitiful, sad surprise,
They look at me with their sweet tender eyes,
And it seems to me, out of the dreary night
I am going up to that world of light,
And away from the hunger and storm so wild;
Ì am sure I shall then be somebody's child.

PHILA H. CASE.

MAUD MULLER.

[Simple conversational style; avoid rhythm.]

Maud Muller, on a summer's day,
Raked the meadow, sweet with hay.

Beneath her torn hat glowed the wealth
Of simple beauty and rustic health.

Singing, she wrought, and her merry glee
The mock-bird echoed from his tree.

But, when she glanced to the far-off town,
White from its hill-slope looking down,

The sweet song died, and a vague unrest
And a nameless longing filled her breast-

A wish, that she hardly dared to own,
For something better than she had known.

The Judge rode slowly down the lane,
Smoothing his horse's chestnut mane.

He drew his bridle in the shade

Of the apple-trees, to greet the maid,

And ask a draught from the spring that flowed
Through the meadow across the road.

She stooped where the cool spring bubbled up,
And filled for him her small tin cup,

And blushed as she gave it, looking down
On her feet so bare, and her tattered gown.

"Thanks!" said the Judge, "a sweeter draught From a fairer hand was never quaffed."

He spoke of the grass and flowers and trees,
Of the singing birds and the humming bees;

Then talked of the haying, and wondered whether The cloud in the west would bring foul weather.

And Maud forgot her brier-torn gown,
And her graceful ankles bare and brown;

And listened, while a pleased surprise
Looked from her long-lashed hazel eyes.

At last, like one who for delay
Seeks a vain excuse, he rode away.

Maud Muller looked and sighed : "Ah, me! That I the Judge's bride might be!

"He would dress me up in silk so fine, And praise and toast me at his wine.

"My father should wear a broadcloth coat; My brother should sail a painted boat.

"I'd dress my mother so grand and gay;

And the baby should have a new toy each day.

"And I'd feed the hungry and clothe the poor, And all should bless me who left our door."

The Judge looked back as he climbed the hill, And saw Maud Muller standing still.

"A form more fair, a face more sweet, Ne'er hath it been my lot to meet.

"And her modest answer and graceful air Show her wise and good as she is fair.

"Would she were mine, and I to-day, Like her, a harvester of hay:

"No doubtful balance of rights and wrongs, Nor weary lawyers with endless tongues,

"But low of cattle and song of birds,
And health, and quiet, and loving words."

But he thought of his sisters proud and cold,
And his mother, vain of her rank and gold.

So, closing his heart, the Judge rode on,
And Maud was left in the field alone.

But the lawyers smiled that afternoon,
When he hummed in court an old love-tune;

And the young girl mused beside the well,
Till the rain on the unraked clover fell.

He wedded a wife of richest dower,
Who lived for fashion as he for power.

Yet oft, in his marble hearth's bright glow,
He watched a picture come and go;

And sweet Maud Muller's hazel eyes
Looked out in their innocent surprise.

Oft when the wine in his glass was red,
He longed for the wayside-well instead ;

And closed his eyes on his garnished rooms, To dream of meadows and clover-blooms.

And the proud man sighed, with a secret pain; "Ah, that I were free again!

"Free as when I rode that day

Where the barefoot maiden raked her hay."

She wedded a man unlearned and poor,
And many children played round her door.

But care and sorrow, and childbirth pain,
Left their traces on heart and brain.

And oft when the summer sun shone hot
On the new-mown hay in the meadow lot,

And she heard the little spring brook fall
Over the roadside, through the wall-

In the shade of the apple-trees again
She saw a rider draw his rein,

And, gazing down with timid grace,
She felt his pleased eyes read her face.

Sometimes her narrow kitchen walls
Stretched away into stately halls;