At morn he waked, bewildered, first,
Or who he was, or where might be ;
Then saw the crown, and with a burst
Of sudden rage he swore and cursed:
"No beggar would change lives with me!
Of all hard fates, a king's is worst!"

Outside the palace, on the ground,

Starved half to death, and freezing cold,
Less sheltered than the meanest hound,
A beggar slumbered, safe and sound,

And dreams to him came swift and bold,
As if a palace walled him round.

He dreamed he was a king indeed;
Oh, dream of ecstasy and bliss!
Of food, he had his utmost greed;
Of gold, beyond his utmost need;

All men knelt low his hand to kiss,
And gave his word obedient heed.

At morn he waked, bewildered first,

Or who he was, or where might be ;
Then quick, by hunger and by thirst,
He knew himself, and groaned and cursed:
"No creature pity takes on me!

A beggar's fate of all is worst!"

H. H.

PEOPLE WILL LAUGH..

You enter the cars, the church or the hall,
You drop into a neighbor's to make a short eall,
Wherever you go an hour to beguile,

You're sure to encounter a laugh or a smile,
For people will laugh.

You may wonder at what they are laughing at fist;
Of all kinds of ignorance this is the worst!
Keep perfectly cool, don't get in a stew,
Although they may be even laughing at you,
For people will laugh.

You're speaking in public and miscall a word,
Immediately there'll a giggle be heard.
Never mind that, but keep straight ahead,
Don't stop to get angry and call them ill-bred,
For people will laugh.

A rusty old hat, or a plain-looking bonnet,
Or a dress with old-fashioned trimming upon it,
From ridicule will not be exempt,

But surely will call forth a smile of contempt,
For people will laugh.

Others your manners will criticise well,

You're either an "old fogy," or else you're a "swell,"
Or perhaps you're "silly," or too solemn or gruff,
You're either "old maidish" or not neat enough,
For people will laugh.

Perhaps some owe you a feeling of spite,
Do they come to you boldly and make it all right?
No; they laugh at you privately, calling you mean,
Disagreeable, stingy, conceited, or-green,
For people will laugh.

Oh, surely, this practice is not in good grace,
A sneer at the back and a smile for the face;
As ye would that others should do unto you,
Let the laugh be honest, good-humored, and true.
For people will laugh.

"CHRISTIANOS AD LEONES ! "

"GIVE the Christians to the lions!" was the savage Roman's cry,

And the vestal virgins added their voices shrill and high,
And the Cæsar gave the order, "Loose the lions from their den
For Rome must have a spectacle worthy of gods and men.'

Forth to the broad arena a little band was led,

But words forbear to utter how the sinless blood was shed.

No sigh the victims proffered, but now and then a prayer
From lips of age and lips of youth rose upward on the air;
And the savage Cæsar muttered, “By Hercules! I swear,
Braver than gladiators these dogs of Christians are."

Then a lictor bending slavishly, saluting with his axe,
Said, "Mighty Imperator! the sport one feature lacks;
We have an Afric lion, savage, and great of limb,
Fusting since yestereven; is the Grecian maid for him?"

The emperor assented. With a frantic roar and bound,
The monster, bursting from his den, gazed terribly around,
And towards him moved a maiden, slowly, but yet serene;
By Venus!" cried the emperor,
"she walketh like a queen."

66

Unconscious of the myriad eyes she crossed the blood-soaked sand,

Till face to face the maid and beast in opposition stand;

The daughter of Athene, in white arrayed and fair,

Gazed on the monster's lowered brow and breathed a silent

prayer.

Then forth she drew a crucifix and held it high in air.

Lo and behold! a miracle! the lion's fury fled, And at the Christian maiden's feet he laid his lordly head, While as she fearlessly caressed, he slowly rose, and then, With one soft, backward look at her, retreated to his den. One shout rose from the multitude, tossed like a stormy sea: "The gods have so decreed it; let the Grecian maid go free!"

Within the Catacombs that night a saint with snowy hair
Folded upon his aged breast his daughter young and fair;
And the gathered brethren lifted a chant of praise and prayer;
From the monster of the desert, from the heathen fierce and

wild,

God has restored to love and life his sinless, trusting child. FRANCIS A. DURIVAGE.

BALLAD OF THE BELL-TOWER.

"FIVE years ago I vowed to Heaven upon my falchion-blade To build the tower; and to this hour my vow hath not been paid. When from the eagle's nest I snatched my falcon-hearted dove, And in my breast shaped her a nest, safe and warm-lined with love,

Not all the bells in Christendom, if rung with fervent might,
That happy day in janglings gay had told my joy aright.

As up the aisle my bride I led in that triumphant hour,
I ached to hear some wedding-cheer clash from the minster-tower.
Nor chime nor tower the minster had; so in my soul I sware,
Come loss, come let, that I would set church-bells a-ringing there
Before a twelvemonth. But ye know what forays lamed the
land,

How seasons went and wealth was spent, and all were weak of hand.

And then the yearly harvest failed ('twas when my boy was born); But could I build while vassals filled my ears with cries for corn?

Thereafter happened the heaviest woe, and none could help or

save;

Nor was there bell to toll a knell above my Hertha's grave.

Ah, had I held my vow supreme all hindrance to control, Maybe these woes God knows! God knows! - had never crushed my soul.

E'en now ye beg that I give o'er: ye say the scant supply
Of water fails in lowland vales, and mountain springs are dry.

'Here be the quarried stones,' ye grant; 'skilled craftsmen come at call;

But with no more of water-store how can we build the wall?'

Nay, listen last year's vintage crowds our cellars, tun on tun; With wealth of wine for yours and mine, dare the work go undone ?

Quick! bring them forth, these mighty butts: let none be elsewhere sold,

And I will pay this very day their utmost worth in gold;

That so the mortar that cements each stone within the shrine, For her dear sake, whom God did take, may all be mixed with wine."

'Twas thus the baron built his tower; and, as the story tells,
A fragrance rare bewitched the air whene'er they rang the bells.
A merrier music tinkled down when harvest-days were long:
They seemed to chime at vantage-time a catch of vintage-song;

And when the vats were foamed with must, if any loitered near
The minster tower at vesper hour, above him he would hear

Tinglings, as of subsiding trills, athwart the purple gloom, And every draught of air he quaffed would taste of vineyard bloom.

MARGARET J. PRESTON.

A SERMON FOR THE SISTERS.

I NEBBER breaks a colt afore he 's old enough to trabble;
I nebber digs my taters till dey plenty big to grabble;
An' when you sees me risin' up to structify in meetin',
I's fust clumb up de knowledge-tree and done some apple-eatin'.

I sees some sistahs pruzint, mighty proud o' whut dey wearin',
It's well you isn't apples, now, you better be declarin'!
For when you heerd yo' markit-price 't 'd hurt yo' little feelin's:
You wouldn't fotch a dime a peck, for all yo' fancy peelin's.

O sistahs-leetle apples (for you're r'ally mighty like 'em)-
I lubs de ol'-time russets, dough it's suldom I kin strike 'em ;
An' so I lubs you, sistahs, for yo' grace, an' not yo' graces
I don't keer how my apple looks, but on'y how it tas'es.

Is dere a Sabbaf-scholah heah? Den let him 'form his mudder
How Jacob-in-de-Bible's boys played off upon dey brudder!