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: Oh, 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. THE FINE LADY ER Heart is set on folly, H' An amber gathering straws; Pity her! She has a little beauty, And she flaunts it in the day, While the selfish wrinkles, spreading, Steal all its charm away. Pity her! She has a little money, And she flings it everywhere; "Tis a gewgaw on her bosom, "Tis a tinsel in her hair. Pity her! She has a little feeling, She spreads a foolish net That snares her own weak footsteps, Pity her! Ye harmless household drudges, Pity her! Ye steadfast ones, whose burthens And brows that will not frown. Ye saints, whose thoughts are folded As a dove's stainless pinions Upon her guileless breast, Pity her! But most, ye helpful angels A Pity her! A DREAM WOMAN came, wearing a veil; Her features were burning and pale; At the door of the shrine doth she kneel, And waileth out, bowing her head, "Ye men of remembrance and dread, "Exorcise the pangs that I feel. "A boat that is torn with the tide, 66 "Since Love makes my bosom his prey. "Ye saints, I fall down at your feet; "Thou Virgin, so piteous to greet, "Reach hither the calm of your hands; "Ye statues of power and of art, "Let your marble weight lie on my heart, "Hold my madness with merciful bands." The priest takes his candle and book And chants the dull Mass through his teeth; But the penitent, clasping his knees, Cries, "Vain as the sough of the breeze The priest, with reproval and frown, "The fiercer the flames burn within." "Get thee hence to the cell and the scourge!" The priest in his anger doth urge, "Or the fire of the stake thou shalt prove, "Maintaining with blasphemous tongue "That the mass-book and censer, high swung, 66 Cannot cast out the demon of Love." Then the Highest stept down from his place, While the depths of his wonderful face The thrill of compassion did move: "Come hide thee," he cried, "in this breast: 66 'I summon the weary to rest; 66 "With love I exorcise thy love." THOMAS HUGHES THOMAS HUGHES, novelist, born at Donnington Priory, Berkshire, England, in 1823; died at Brighton, in 1896. He was educated at Rugby, during the headmastership of the famous Dr. Arnold, and at Oriel College, Oxford. His school experiences appeared later in his "Tom Brown's School Days," and "Tom Brown at Oxford." He was admitted to the bar, and for a number of years was a member of Parliament. In addition to the works mentioned above, he wrote "A Layman's Faith," "Alfred the Great," "The Manliness of Christ," and others. It seems as if Hughes, more than almost any other writer, had a thorough understanding of boy nature. RUGBY AND FOOTBALL (From "Tom Brown's School Days") AND so here's Rugby, sir, at last, and you'll be in plenty of time for dinner at the schoolhouse, as I tell'd you," said the old guard, pulling his horn out of its case, and tootle-tooing away; while the coachman shook up his horses, and carried them along the side of the school close, round Deadman's Corner, past the school gates, and down the High street to the Spread Eagle; the wheelers in a spanking trot, and leaders cantering, in a style which would not have disgraced "Cherry Bob," "ramping, stamping, tearing, swearing Billy Harwood," or any other of the old coaching heroes. Tom's heart beat quick as he passed the great school fields or close, with its noble elms, in which several games of football were going on, and tried to take in at once the long line of gray buildings, beginning with the chapel, and ending with the school-house, the residence of the head-master, where the great flag was lazily waving from the highest round tower. And he began already to be proud at being a Rugby boy, as he passed the school gates, with the oriel-window above, and saw the boys standing there, looking as if the town belonged to them, and nodding in a familiar manner to the coachman, as if any one of them would be quite equal to getting on the box and working the team down street as well as he. One of the young heroes, however, ran out from the rest, and scrambled up behind; where, having righted himself and nodded to the guard with "How do, Jem?" he turned short round to Tom, and, after looking him over for a minute, began: "I say, you fellow, is your name Brown?" "Yes," said Tom, in considerable astonishment; glad however to have lighted on some one already who seemed to know him. "Ah, I thought so; you know my old aunt, Miss East; she lives somewhere down your way in Berkshire. She wrote to me that you were coming today, and asked me to give you a lift.” Tom was somewhat inclined to resent the patronizing air of his new friend-a boy of just about his own height and age, but gifted with the most transcendent coolness and assurance, which Tom felt to be aggravating and hard to bear, but couldn't for the life of him help admiring and envying-especially when young my lord begins hectoring two or three long loafing fellows, halfporter, half stableman, with a strong touch of the blackguard, and in the end arranges with one of them, nicknamed Cooey, to carry Tom's luggage up to the schoolhouse for sixpence. P "And heark'ee, Cooey, it must be up in ten minutes or no more jobs from me. Come along, Brown." |