plank coffin holds his form;
Yet death exalts his face,
And I would rather see him thus
Than clasped in your embrace.

To-night your home may shine with light
And ring with merry song,
And you be smiling as your soul
Had done no deadly wrong;
Your hand so fair that none would think
It penned these words of pain;
Your skin so white--would God your heart
Were half as free from stain.

I'd rather be my comrade dead
Than you in life supreme;
For yours the sinner's waking dread,
And his the martyr's dream!
Whom serve we in this life we serve
In that which is to come;
He chose his way, you--yours; let God
Pronounce the fitting doom.

_W.S. Hawkins._

Columbus

A harbor in a sunny, southern city;
Ships at their anchor, riding in the lee;
A little lad, with steadfast eyes, and dreamy,
Who ever watched the waters lovingly.

A group of sailors, quaintly garbed and bearded;
Strange tales, that snared the fancy of the child:
Of far-off lands, strange beasts, and birds, and people,
Of storm and sea-fight, danger-filled and wild.

And ever in the boyish soul was ringing
The urging, surging challenge of the sea,
To dare,--as these men dared, its wrath and danger,
To learn,--as they, its charm and mystery.

Columbus, by the sunny, southern harbor,
You dreamed the dreams that manhood years made true;
Thank God for men--their deeds have crowned the ages--
Who once were little dreamy lads like you.

_Helen L. Smith._

The September Gale

I'm not a chicken; I have seen
Full many a chill September,
And though I was a youngster then,
That gale I well remember;
The day before, my kite-string snapped,
And I, my kite pursuing,
The wind whisked off my palm-leaf hat;--
For me two storms were brewing!

It came as quarrels sometimes do,
When married folks get clashing;
There was a heavy sigh or two,
Before the fire was flashing,--
A little stir among the clouds,
Before they rent asunder,--
A little rocking of the trees,
And then came on the thunder.

Lord! how the ponds and rivers boiled,
And how the shingles rattled!
And oaks were scattered on the ground,
As if the Titans battled;
And all above was in a howl,
And all below a clatter,--
The earth was like a frying-pan.
Or some such hissing matter.

It chanced to be our washing-day,
And all our things were drying:
The storm came roaring through the lines,
And set them all a-flying;
I