That will to me a pleasure prove:
So it shall be a happy day;

And if some day, I've cause to dread
Pass harmless by, I'll write it red.

"When hands and brain stand labor's test,
And I can do the thing I would
Those days when I am at my best
Shall all be traced as very good.

And in 'red letter,' too, I'll write

Those rare, strong hours when right is might.

"When first I meet in some grand book

A noble soul that touches mine,
And with this vision I can look

Through some gate beautiful of time,
That day such happiness will shed
That golden-lined will seem the red.

"And when pure, holy thoughts have power
To touch my heart and dim my eyes,
And I in some diviner hour

Can hold sweet converse with the skies, Ah! then my soul may safely write: "This day has been most good and bright.'"

What do I see on looking back?

A red-lined book before me lies,

With here and there a thread of black,

That like a gloomy shadow flies,

A shadow it must be confessed,
That often rose in my own breast.

And I have found it good to note
The blessing that is mine each day;
For happiness is vainly sought

In some dim future far away.
Just try my ledger for a year,

Then look with grateful wonder back,
And you will find, there is no fear,
The red days far exceed the black.

THE QUESTIONS

BY BYRON BEACH

Ah, Life, what art thou,

With thy smiles, and with thy fears?

And what is Love,

That kisses Youth, and lingers through the years?

And what is Death,

That chills each heart, and stills all troubling fears?

Dost thou not know, thou wanderer of mine?

Dost thou not harken to the breath of Spring

And hopes that thrill and pine?

Dost thou know enough, that Life is good;

That Life is joy untold,

As free and broad as sunset ray?

A clay it is, for thine own hand to mold;

Ah, foolish child, to ask it in thy mood.

What it is, thine own heart knows,

And strives to do its bidding.

It serves thee well and tenderly.
What else it is, thou canst not know.

And what is Death?

Ah, child of mine, seek far and well

Before you turn from me.

A dream is but a rose's breath

And so is Death. 'Tis but a dream,

A sleep a tender kiss;

A pillow for thy care and tear;
It is not, then, amiss.

And what is Life?

And what is Love?

And what is Death?

so pure and free;

Seek, child, no more, nor worry with thy queries,

For Life is Love; and Love is Death,

And Death is peace and sweet,

Sweet rest for one who wearies.

DIRGE FOR A SQLDIER

On the death of General Philip Kearney at Chantilly, Va.

BY GEORGE HENRY BOKER

Close his eyes; his work is done!

What to him is friend or foeman,

Rise of moon or set of sun,

Hand of man or kiss of woman?

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

As man may, he fought his fight,
Proved his truth by his endeavor;
Let him sleep in solemn night,
Sleep forever and forever.

Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Fold him in his country's stars,

Roll the drum and fire the volley!
What to him are all our wars? -
What but death-bemocking folly?
Lay him low, lay him low,
In the clover or the snow!
What cares he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

Leave him to God's watching eye;

Trust him to the hand that made him.

Mortal love weeps idly by;

God alone has power to aid him.

Lay him low, lay him low,

In the clover or the snow!

What care he? he cannot know;
Lay him low!

LIGHT

BY FRANCIS W. BOURDILLON

The night has a thousand eyes,
And the day but one;

Yet the light of the bright world dies,
With the dying sun.

The mind has a thousand eyes,

And the heart but one;

Yet the light of a whole life dies,

When love is done.

O LITTLE TOWN OF BETHLEHEM

BY PHILLIPS BROOKS

O little town of Bethlehem,

How still we see thee lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

The silent stars go by;

Yet in thy dark street shineth

The everlasting Light;

The hopes and fears of all the years
Are met in thee to-night.

For Christ is born of Mary,

And, gathered all above,
While mortals sleep, the angels keep
Their watch of wondering love;

O morning stars, together

Proclaim the holy birth,