Spelling it backward, like a Hebrew book, Till life became a Legend of the Dead. But ah! what once has been shall be no more! The groaning earth in travail and in pain Brings forth its races, but does not restore, And the dead nations never rise again. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW (1807-1882). THE BROTHERHOOD OF MAN. WHAT infinite abundance marks the wealth That Mother Nature keeps in store for those Who seek her daily! What a fount of cheer For all her children! What continuous joy Should stamp existence! Yet unthinking crowds Still stir the mire of hate and foul revenge, That keeps the earth in shadow and in gloom. Should not the Jew and Gentile meet as friends? Why not affiliate as neighbors, too? And why should not our children's joys be one? Are we not one-the children of one God? Why teach our little ones to throw the taunt: "Our mothers say we cannot play with Disfigures man, and stamps him as a fool. The Roman, Greek and Protestant alike Should think a while. For Jesus was a Jew; Jesus, the God-man, if you will-not God. ARCHIBALD Ross. (Published New York, 1908.) A CALL TO THE BUILDERS. I. YE may not rear it now,-though some aver The eye of man shall see it where it stood, The glittering House of God, with cedar-wood Well builded, and with olive and with fir, Cunningly carved with wide-winged cherubim, And flowers full-blown, and palmtrees fair and slim. The ancient, unforgetting Eastern skyBlue as the sapphire in the breastplate set, That watching waits, may not behold it yet; Though there be breasts where longing will not die; Though still Jerusalem's holy earth be shed, Dear symbol, o'er the unalienated dead! II. Yet unto you, O sons of Israel! This year, this day, this hour, and in this land, 'Tis given to lend with joy the helping hand. To rear a mighty Temple builded well. Its blocks young souls, unhewn yet by the keen Steel of the desecrating world, and clean. Bring, bring bright gold, and melt it in the fire. So shall that faithful offering overspread A spiritual altar, be ye sure; So to the Strength of Israel shall aspire From lamps of many branches flamelets pure, The light of lives with oil of knowledge fed! HELEN GRAY CONE (1859-). A TRIBUTE TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. DR. A. S. BETTELHEIM, WHO DIED AND WAS BURIED AT SEA, AUGUST 21ST, 1890. FROM HIS PUPIL AND FRIEND. "Behold an Israelite indeed, in whom there was no guile." 'TIS midnight on the solemn sea: Slow sails the stately ship along: Pale moonlight silvers o'er the scene, And wanly lights a trembling throng Of strangers, gathered round the bier Of One whom distant hearts hold dear; Who wait his coming to their shore; But shall behold his face no more! Encircled by the saddened band, Waiting to serve him, far away; O, heart that beat for all mankind, Why are thy potent pulses stilled? Great mind to plan the good he wrought; Teacher who practiced what he taught; Brave champion of God's high laws, Could he forsake Truth's holy cause? He answers not: those lips are dumb. That ear, though never dull before, Heeds no appeal. His eyes are closed On earthly sights forever more. At last that teeming brain is still; Then, through the stillness of the night, That thrill upon the shuddering air. Each head is bowed; all knees are bent, Under the starry firmament, As, reverently, there, is said The solemn service for the dead. "O Lord and Father, righteous Judge, Blest be thy Name, and blest be Thou! Sole King of all the Universe, Before thy throne we meekly bow. Thy mighty arm is strong to save: Who under Death's dominion lies. He sang to David's tuneful lyre, "Lord of the Spirits of all Flesh, To thy sure mercies we commend The soul that has departed hence, Thy faithful servant, and our friend. "And oh! for those who hold him dear, Of hearts that fondly round him twine, Scarce died the mournful tones away When one low whispered word was said. Then, launched alone upon the sea, Sank to its nameless, lowly bed The body of so grand a man, That, though his years filled not life's span, In him, the world through which he trod, Beheld the noblest work of God. The heaving bosom of the deep There, with his canopy the skies, The burning stars his tapers bright, The winds and waves in symphonies His ceaseless "Kadesh" shall recite. But aching hearts must still weep on, Mourning the joy forever gone. And vainly moan the burden o'er: "Alas! he can return no more!" But has his spirit perished? "No!" A thousand thundering waves reply. The garb of flesh that robed his soul Beneath the ocean's waste may lie: But borne by angel hands away From its frail tenement of clay, Father divine, to fashion men, Shalt thou omnipotence employ, And Death be ever able, then, Thy loving children to destroy? Perish the thought that souls made pure Shall not eternally endure; That spirits grown devoutly wise "And shall our narrow, biased bounds, Fraternal "Pater Nosters" said, No: your own Holy Writ declares, Through that slain Tew, the Crucified. Of piety and righteousness: And pray thee take his spirit rare Under thine own almighty care, While waits in peace his sacred dust The resurrection of the just. IBBIE MCCOLM WILSON (1834-1908). Crisp, everlasting-flowers, Half blind, palsied, in pain, Ah! not little, when pain Hark! through the alley resounds Of this amiable home of the dead. Bitter spirits! ye claim From such mates the outworn In the laurell'd rock, o'er the blue On Ravenna sands, in the shade By the Avon side, in the bright Stratford meadows, for thee, Shakespeare! loveliest of souls, Peerless in radiance, in joy. What, then, so harsh and malign, Heine! distils from thy life? Poisons the peace of the grave? I chide with thee not, that thy sharp So thou arraign'st her, her foe; Yes, we arraign her! but she, Of the too vast orb of her fate. But was it thou-I think Had every other gift, but wanted love; Charm is the glory which makes |