CHICAGO. OCTOBER 10, 1871.

Bret Harte.

BLACKENED and bleeding, helpless, panting, prone, On the charred fragments of her shattered throne Lies she who stood but yesterday alone.

Queen of the West! by some enchanter taught
To lift the glory of Aladdin's court,

Then lose the spell that all that wonder wrought.

Like her own prairies by some chance seed sown, Like her own prairies in one brief day grown, Like her own prairies in one fierce night mown.

She lifts her voice, and in her pleading call
We hear the cry of Macedon to Paul,
The cry for help that makes her kin to all.

But haply with wan fingers may she feel
The silver cup hid in the proffered meal,
The gifts her kinship and our love reveal.

LIFE.

Anna Letitia Barbauld.

LIFE! I know not what thou art,
But know that thou and I must part;

And when, or how, or where we met,
I own to me's a secret yet.

Life! we've been long together

Through pleasant and through cloudy weather; 'Tis hard to part when friends are dear;

Perhaps 'twill cost a sigh, a tear;

Then steal away, give little warning,

Choose thine own time;

Say not Good night,- but in some brighter clime Bid me Good morning.

SONG OF CALCHAS.

From THE CONTENTION OF AJAX AND ULYSSES.

James Shirley.

THE glories of our blood and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate;

Death lays his icy hands on kings:

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill;
But their strong nerves at last must yield;
They tame but one another still:
Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow,

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon Death's purple altar now,

See, where the victor-victim bleeds:
Your head must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet, and blossom in their dust.

IN AN AGE OF FOPS AND TOYS.

Ralph Waldo Emerson.

In an age of fops and toys,
Wanting wisdom, void of right,
Who shall nerve heroic boys

To hazard all in Freedom's fight,

Break sharply off their jolly games,
Forsake their comrades gay

And quit proud homes and youthful dames

For famine, toil and fray?

Yet on the nimble air benign

Speed nimbler messages,

That waft the breath of grace divine

To hearts in sloth and ease.

So nigh is grandeur to our dust,

So near is God to man,

When Duty whispers low, Thou must,

The youth replies, I can.

THE UNDERTAKING.

John Donne.

I HAVE done one braver thing
Than all the Worthies did;

And yet a braver thence doth spring,

Which is, to keep that hid.

It were but madness now t' impart

The skill of specular stone,

When he, which can have learn'd the art

To cut it, can find none.

So, if I now should utter this,

Others (because no more

Such stuff to work upon there is)

Would love but as before: