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The bow of Joseph, thou! Thy light
Reminds me of the Hebrew's right

And Egypt's wrong;

Reminds me of Mosaic priests,

Their hyssop-branch, their bleeding beasts,
The prophet's goodly throng;

Their bitter herbs, unleavened feasts,
And hallelujah-song;

Reminds me of that night of gloom,

The Twelve, the One, the upper-room;

The Bread and Wine;

Of Olivet remindeth me,

Of Kedron and Gethsemane;

Of Thee, Redeemer mine! Thy cross, Thy cries, Thy victory, Stupendous love divine!

O Paschal-moon, to wax and wane, Though short thy date, how wide thy reign

Afar and near!

Thou art the Church's harvest-moon.
She sows in tears, but reapeth soon
A sheaf for every tear.

Shine on! We catch thy heavenly tune
And shout the harvest-cheer.

WATCHWORDS.

WE are living, we are dwelling
In a grand and awful time;
In an age, on ages telling,
To be living, is sublime.

Hark! the waking up of nations,
Gog and Magog to the fray;
Hark! what soundeth is Creation's
Groaning for its latter day.

Will ye play, then! will ye dally

With your music, with your wine? Up! it is Jehovah's rally!

God's own arm hath need of thine.

Hark! the onset! will ye fold your
Faith-clad arms in lazy lock!
Up, oh up, thou drowsy soldier!
Worlds are charging to the shock.

Worlds are charging, heaven beholding!
Thou hast but an hour to fight;
Now, the blazoned cross unfolding,
On, right onward for the right!

What! still hug thy dreamy slumbers?
'Tis no time for idling play,
Wreaths, and dance, and poet-numbers;
Flout them! we must work to-day!

Fear not! spurn the worldling's laughter;
Thine ambition trample thou!
Thou shalt find a long Hereafter

To be more than tempts thee now.

On! let all the soul within you

For the truth's sake go abroad! Strike! let every nerve and sinew Tell on ages, tell for God!

THE INNOCENTS.

Refrain thy voice from weeping and thine eyes from tears, for.... thy children shall come again to their own border. Jeremiah, xxxi. 17.

I.

READING the stones that marked a field of death,
I heard a sigh, as 'mid the mounds I trod;
It seemed to say, as 'twere with sobbing breath,
My heart is buried here, O Christ, my God!

II.

A mother by a new-made bed that knelt

I saw, and turned my steps with rev'rent fear; Yet lingering in the church-yard walks, I felt, Dear Lord! how many hearts are hoarded here.

III.

How many buds and blossoms of the spring, By frosts too early nipp'd, lie thickly strown; Or like the swallows oft, on eager wing,

That come untimely and too oft are flown.

IV.

Yet 'neath these heaps of buried hopes that tell Are sown not less the seeds of life's return; God's ore is treasured in each narrow cell, Where gold refines and only dross can burn.

V.

Oh, weep not, mother, o'er that bed of love

Where innocence awaits the trumpet's sound, While many a mother mourns her dead above, And weeps no more for children under ground.

VI.

But come this way when holy hymns are sung, And sounds the air with Paschal-anthems rife, To charge with notes of joy thy plaintive tongue, And sing the Resurrection and the Life.

VII.

For sweetly sleeps the chrisom-child at rest,

And fain with such the Christian heart would lie! If so God wills, of all His gifts 'tis best,

Fresh from the fount, in the Christ new-born, to

die.

M

CHARLES SHEPARD PARKE.

CHARLES SHEPARD PARKE.

R. PARKE was born in Buffalo, N. Y., August 6th, 1861. He has resided in Buffalo ever since. He entered the Buffalo High School in 1876, and two years later went abroad for a year's travel and study in England, France and Germany. Returning in 1879, he re-entered the High School and was graduated in 1881.

Mr. Parke began his career as a book-keeper in 1883. In 1885 he became associate editor of the Roller Mill, a monthly trade-journal. In 1886 he became editor and part owner, a position he retains at the present time. Mr. Parke was a furtive maker of verse in 1885, but did not contribute much to the local newspapers till 1890. Since that time he has written considerable. He published in 1892 a dainty little volume, "Ventures in Verse." H.A. K.

A SYLVAN CEREMONY.

"KNEEL," whispered the breeze. On wistful knees

In the swaying grass I sank,

While, all around,

A soft choral sound

Swelled from bower and bank.

Two slender blows,

And I arose

Of sordid aims bereft,
By the accolade

Of a green grass-blade Ennobled and enfeoffed.

Now am I lord

Of weald and sward, Fellow to leaf and flower! Brook, bee and bird Have passed the word That owns me from this hour!

GIRLISH LAUGHTER.

O, CHIDE her laughter not;
'Tis sweeter far, I wot-

So natural, so joyous and so free-
Than prim or artful titter,
Or timid, tight-laced twitter,

Or delicately simpering te-hee.

Those swelling notes bespeak
Young blood and sound physique,

A conscience clear, an open heart and whole.
They flood the place with gladness,
Submerging care and sadness,

And lave the tender edges of the soul!

OVERHEARD IN AUGUST.

41

THE Song of Kissisqua, the brooklet, the silvertoned babbler,

Rehearsing the gossip of rushes to broad pebbly reaches,

Anon lightly telling of flower-loves far in the glen.

The song of the westerly breeze, full of sweet meadow thoughts,

Orchard airs, garden fancies, fresh mem'ries of plenty afield,

With soft undertone of lament for the passing of

summer.

The song of the cloudlet, whose shadow slips down the green vale,

An exquisite strain, that just floats to the far edge of hearing,

A measure so fine that its melody dies at a look.

MY "MACKINAW."

FAREWELL, my faithful Mackinaw, Farewell! It is October,

When proper men put off the straw And on the Derby sober.

Farewell! Two frolic seasons through Thou'st been a merry thatch;

But scorching sun and stiffening dew Have done thee. Now the match!

Farewell! 'T were better thou shouldst burn

Than crown some graceless bummer.

I'll save thy cinders in an urn

Marked "Ashes of the Summer."

Farewell! for I'm a proper man,

And so, the match-but stay! Come shine or shower, old hat of tan, I'll wear thee one more day!

ANSWERED.

I STOOD On the sounding shore,

I questioned the fnrious sea:

"O, why in white anger uptossed?"

And out of the wild uproar

The answer came hissing to me: "Because I'm incessantly crossed!"

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