I questioned not her peace with God, For I've seen men who meant not ill Compelling doctrine out of Death, With Hell and Heaven acutely poised Upon the turning of a breath; While agonizing judgments hung I could but say, with faltering voice "And though thou walk the shadowy vale She knew it well, and knew yet more My deepest hope, though unexprest, The hope that God's appointed sleep But heightens ravishment with rest. My children, living flowers, shall come And strew with seed this grave of thine, And bid the blushing growths of Spring Thy dreary painted cross entwine. Thus Faith, cast out of barren creeds, Shall rest in emblems of her own; Beauty still springing from Decay, The cross-wood budding to the crown. BATTLE HYMN OF THE REPUBLIC. MINE eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord: He is trampling out the vintage where the grapes of wrath are stored; He hath loosed the fateful lightning of his terrible swift sword; His truth is marching on. I have seen him in the watch-fires of a hundred circling camps; I can read his righteous sentence by the dim and flaring lamps. His day is marching on. I have read a fiery gospel, writ in burnished rows of steel: "As ye deal with my contemners, so with you my grace shall deal; Let the Hero, born of woman, crush the serpent with his heel, Since God is marching on." He has sounded forth the trumpet that shall never call retreat; He is sifting out the hearts of men before his judgment-seat: O, be swift, my soul, to answer him! be jubilant, my feet! Our God is marching on. In the beauty of the lilies Christ was born across the sea, With a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me: As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free, While God is marching on. H. D. THOREAU. [U. S. A.] INSPIRATION. IF with light head erect I sing, source. But if with bended neck I grope, Making my soul accomplice there They have builded him an altar in the I hearing get, who had but ears, - evening dews and damps; And sight, who had but eyes before; It is nothing now, ELIZABETH LLOYD HOWELL. When heaven is opening on my sight less eyes? When airs from paradise refresh my brow, That was the grandest funeral go Noiselessly as the daylight Comes back when night is done, And had he not high honor, To lie in state while angels wait And the dark rock-pines like tossing And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek, Over his bier to wave, Grows into the great sun. Noiselessly as the spring-time Or voice of them that wept, And God's own hand, in that lonely land, To lay him in the grave? In that strange grave without a name Shall break again, O wondrous thought! Silently down from the mountain's crown And stand with glory wrapt around The great procession swept. Perchance the bald old eagle For beast and bird have seen and heard But when the warrior dieth, With arms reversed and muffled drum, They show the banners taken, And after him lead his masterless steed, Amid the noblest of the land, And give the bard an honored place And the organ rings and the sweet choir Along the emblazoned wall. This was the truest warrior That ever buckled sword, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men. On the hills he never trod, And speak of the strife that won our life O lonely grave in Moab's land! O dark Beth-Peor's hill! Speak to these curious hearts of ours, God hath his mysteries of grace, He hides them deep, like the hidden sleep Of him he loved so well. E. H. SEARS. [U. S. A.] CHRISTMAS HYMN. CALM on the listening ear of night Her silver-mantled plains! Celestial choirs, from courts above, Shed sacred glories there; The answering hills of Palestine And greet, from all their holy heights, On the blue depths of Galilee There comes a holier calm, And Sharon waves, in solemn praise, |