Bold in the favor of the eldest born,

Athol, for both his younger brothers, spoke: "Father, the fox is prowling in the corn,

And hear the night-owl hooting from the oak; Let us to couch." But Sweyn had raised his head, And thus, unwitting what had passed, he said:

"See, from my breast I draw this chain of gold;"
Fair in the firelight royally it shone,
"This for his honor that shall best unfold,
Who, of all creatures, is the most alone;
Take him from palace, monast'ry, or cot,
Loving, unloved, forgetting, or forgot."

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Then Athol spoke, with thoughtful tone and look;
He is the loneliest - most alone of all,
Who, in a skiff to the mid-seas forsook,

Finds not an echo, even, to his call; If Echo lived not, all alone were he; But there's no echo on the solemn sea!"

And Alfred next: "But lonelier, brother, far,
The wretch that flies a just, avenging rod;
To him all scenes are waste, a foe the star,
All earth he's lost, yet knows no heaven, no God;
Most lonely he, who, making man his foe,
Unto man's Maker dareth not to go!"

Thus spoke the lads, with wit beyond their years;
And yet the old man held his beard and sighed,
As one who gains the form his wishing wears,
But misses still a something most denied;
Upon his youngest eager looks he turned,
And Edric's cheek with grace ingenuous burned.

"I think, my father,” and his tones were low, "That lonelier yet, and most alone is he,

Scarce taught, though crowds are leading, where to go,
And one face missing, can no other see;

Though all the Norman's court around him moves,
He is alone apart from her he loves."

A hush fell on them. Then, with loving air,
And all the touching romance of the old,
The hoary father kissed young Edric's hair,
And o'er his shoulders threw the chain of gold,
Then fell upon his darling's neck, and cried:

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I have been lonely since thy mother died!"

GARFIELD.

SURELY, if happiness can ever come from the honors or triumphs of this world, on that quiet July morning James A. Garfield may well have been a happy man. No foreboding of evil haunted him; no slightest premonition of danger clouded his sky. His terrible fate was upon him in an instant. One moment he stood erect, strong, confident in the years stretching peacefully out before him. The next he lay wounded, bleeding, helpless, doomed to weary weeks of torture, to silence, and the grave.

Great in life, he was surpassingly great in death. For no cause, in the very frenzy of wantonness and wickedness, by the red hand of murder, he was thrust from the full tide of this world's interest, from its hopes, its aspirations, its victories, into the visible presence of death-and he did not quail. Not alone for the one short moment in which, stunned and dazed, he could give up life, hardly aware of its relinquishment, but through days of deadly languor, through weeks of agony, that was not less agony because silently borne, with clear sight and calm courage, he looked into his open grave. What blight and ruin met his anguished eyes, whose lips may tell what brilliant, broken plans, what baffled, high ambitions, what sundering of strong, warm, manhood's friendships, what bitter rendering of sweet household ties! Behind him a proud, expectant nation, a great host of sustaining friends, a cherished and happy mother, wearing the full, rich honors of her early toil and tears; the wife of his youth, whose whole life lay in his; the little boys not yet emerged from childhood's day of frolic; the fair, young daughter; the sturdy sons just springing into closest companionship, claiming every day and every day rewarding a father's love and care; and in his heart the eager, rejoicing power to meet all demand. Before him, desolation and great darkness! And his soul was not shaken.

His countrymen were thrilled with instant, profound, and universal sympathy.

Masterful in his mortal weakness, he became the centre of a nation's love, enshrined in the prayers of a world. But all the love and all the sympathy could not share with him his suffering. He trod the wine-press alone. With unfaltering front he faced death. With unfailing tenderness he took leave of life. Above the demoniac hiss of the assassin's bullet he heard the voice of God. With simple resignation he bowed to the Divine decree.

As the end drew near, his early craving for the sea returned. The stately mansion of power had been to him the wearisome hospital of pain, and he begged to be taken from its prison walls, from its oppressive, stifling air, from its homelessness and hopelessness. Gently, silently, the love of a great nation bore the pale sufferer to the longed-for healing of the sea, to live or to die, as God should will, within sight of its heaving billows, within sound of its manifold voices. With wan, fevered face tenderly lifted to the cooling breeze, he looked out wistfully upon the ocean's changing wonders; on its fair sails, whitening in the morning light; on its restless waves, rolling shoreward to break and die beneath the noonday sun; on the red clouds of evening, arching low to the horizon; on the serene and shining pathway of the stars. Let us think that his dying eyes read a mystic meaning which only the rapt and parting soul may know. Let us believe that in the silence of the receding world he heard the great waves breaking on a further shore, and felt already upon his wasted brow the breath of the eternal morning.

J. G. BLAINE.

NO TIME LIKE THE OLD TIME.

THERE is no time like the old time, when you and I were

young,

When the buds of April blossomed, and the birds of spring

time sung!

The garden's brightest glories by summer suns are

nursed,

But, oh, the sweet, sweet violets, the flowers that opened

first!

There is no place like the old place where you and I were

born!

Where we lifted first our eyelids on the splendors of the

morn,

From the milk-white breast that warmed us, from the clinging arms that bore,

Where the dear eyes glistened o'er us that will look on us

no more!

There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days,

No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise;

Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold,

But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.

There is no love like the old love that we courted in our pride;

Though our leaves are falling, falling, and we're fading side

by side,

There are blossoms all around us with the colors of our

dawn,

And we live in borrowed sunshine when the light of day is

gone.

There are no times like the old times - they shall never be

forgot!

There is no place like the old place — keep green the dear

old spot!

There are no friends like our old friends

prolong their lives!

There are no loves like our old loves-God bless our loving

wives!

ANONYMOUS.

CARCASSONNE.

I'M growing old, I've sixty years;
I've labored all my life in vain;
In all that time of hopes and fears
I've failed my dearest wish to gain;
I see full well that here below

Bliss unalloyed there is for none;
My prayer will ne'er fulfilment know
I never have seen Carcassonne,
I never have seen Carcassonne!

You see the city from the hill, -
It lies beyond the mountains blue,
And yet, to reach it, one must still
Five long and weary leagues pursue,
And, to return, as many more!

Ah, had the vintage plenteous grown!
The grape withheld its yellow store,
I shall not look on Carcassonne,
I shall not look on Carcassonne!

They tell me every day is there

Not more nor less than Sunday gay, In shining robes and garments fair The people walk upon their way; One gazes there on castle walls

As grand as those of Babylon,
A bishop and two generals.

I do not know fair Carcassonne,
I do not know fair Carcassonne!

The vicar's right, he says that we Are ever wayward, weak, and blind; He tells us in his homily

-

Ambition ruins all mankind – Yet could I there two days have spent While still the autumn sweetly shone, Ah me! I might have died content When I had looked on Carcassonne, When I had looked on Carcassonne!