THE UNIVERSAL GOD. FORASMUCH ORASMUCH as all men worship, bow the head or bend the knee Toward a Fate, a Power, a Maker, whom they feel yet cannot see, Source of life and life's Destroyer, Mystery in Mys tery; Forasmuch as all the winds and all the seas in wild acclaim, All the worlds from outer darkness eddying into light and flame, Roar with rumor of his glory, clang the syllables of his name; Forasmuch as heart and fancy throb with love or cower in fear, Stirred with tremor of his motions, by his shadowing shield or spear, And rebelling or denying every leaf of life is sear; Forasmuch as they who love, and lean in love upon his breast, Reap the richer bliss of being, drink the dews of a deeper rest, Rise renewed in soul and sinew, greeting life with a keener zest, THE MAKING OF MAN. 29 I will seek him 'mid the darkness, search his prints in the shifting sands, Kneel beside his feet invisible, crave the touch of his viewless hands, Trust his love, proclaim his splendor trumpet-tongued in the listless lands. GEORGE F. S. ARMSTRONG. THE MAKING OF MAN. WHERE RE is one that, born of woman, altogether can escape From the lower world within him, moods of tiger, or of ape? Man as yet is being made, and ere the crowning Age of ages, Shall not æon after æon pass and touch him into shape? All about him shadow still, but, while the races flower and fade, Prophet-eyes may catch a glory slowly gaining on the shade, Till the peoples all are one, and all their voices blend in choric Hallelujah to the Maker, "It is finished. Man is made." ALFRED TENNYSON. PRO MORTUIS. WHAT should a man desire to leave? WHAT A flawless work; a noble life; Some music harmonized from strife, Some finished thing, ere the slack hands at eve Drop, should be his to leave. One gem of song, defying age; A hard-won fight; a well-worked farm; Some tale as our lost Thackeray's, bright, or sage Or, in life's homeliest, meanest spot, To move within his little sphere, to year Leaving a pure name to be known, or not, – But the imperfect thing, or thought, The crudities and yeast of youth, The dubious doubt, the twilight truth, The work that for the passing day was wrought, The schemes that came to naught, The sketch half-way 'twixt verse and prose BEREAVED. And fever-fits of joy or gloom, In kind oblivion let them be! Nor has the dead worse foe than he Who rakes these sweepings of the artist's room, Ah, 't is but little that the best, 31 FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE. BEREAVED. ET me come in where you sit weeping, — aye, LE Let me, who have not any child to die, Weep with you for the little one whose love I have known nothing of. The little arms that slowly, slowly loosed Their pressure round your neck; the hands you used To kiss, such arms- - such hands I never knew. May I not weep with you? Fain would I be of service, say something, Between the tears, that would be comforting, — But, ah! so sadder than yourselves am I, Who have no child to die! JAMES WHITCOMB RILEY. THE UNWELCOME GUEST. WHEN THEN Grief shall come to thee, For Grief, with steady pace, Will win the race; Nor crowd her forth with Mirth, For at thy hearth, When Mirth is tired and gone, Will Grief sit on; But make of her thy friend, And in the end Her counsels will grow sweet, And, with swift feet, Three lovelier than she Will come to thee Calm Patience, Courage strong, And Hope-ere long. HENRIETTA R. ELIOT. ANTIPHONOUS. STROPHE. AYE, but to die and go we know not where; To lie in cold obstruction and to rot; This sensible warm motion to become |