1 was bom as freo as the sil very light ...

1 was bom as freo as the sil very light That laughs in a southern fountain; Free as the aea-fed bird that uests On a Scandinavian mountain; Free as the wind that mocks at the sway And pinioning clasp of another. Yet in the slave they scourged today I saw and fcnew- my brother! Veted in purple 1 sat apart, But the chord that smote him bruised me. l closed my eara, but the sob that broke íVvn hia savage breast accused tne. No phra.se of reasoning judgment just The plaint of my soul could smother. A creature vile, abased to the dust, I knew bim still- my brother. And the autumn day that had smiled so fair Seemcd snddenly orerclouded. A sloom more dreadfol than Nature owns My human rnmd enshrouded. 1 thputrht of the power benign that made And bound men one to the other. And 1 feit in my brother's fear afraid, Aud ashamed in the shame of my brother. -Florence Earle Coates. Unforgotten. As gome sweet scrap of an oíd poem stray3 Back from oblivion and gladdens me, So steals upoQ ruy heart the metnory Of you and the old days. An echo echoes back a song unheard. Telling unvvritten romances to mo; Irlylls unsyllabled in poetry. Of dates uncalendared. A-maytlm lilac blooms and hum of bees, And birds' and ureezes' inyriad carolings. And all the spriugtiine's fugitivo sweet thingB, ComminglinK catasfea That once we shared, but no'er asain shall know. Save in the vague, mysterious realm of d reama, Where heart keeps sacred tryst with heart, and seema Threadiim the long ago, Today I know Dot where your footsteps wend; The world is large: our ways, meandering However deviously, yet never bring Our paths to the sanie end. Where'er yon face your way winds to the heights Beyond my reach; I keep the valley path. And glean the sweet late summer's af termath, Fragrant with dear delights That you would scarce count worth your gatheriug; Vou, who must win upon your upland ways, A hero's laurels and a poet's lays: Yet, while 1 try to sing, I wonder if, perchance, some fledgling song Of mine may, one day, flnttering tremulously, Warble in love spun lays ecstatically. The words unvoiced so long. And reach your heart, like a dove messenger. And rouse retjret and waken memory - That song should be my dearest song to me, My heart 's interpreter. Sometimes I tbink of you as one who passed Beyond the shadows toa bourne unknown. And then I dream jou are my very own, My very own at last. In the dream realm thereare no laws, forsooth. And happily, lest in some wilding mood The vagrant dreamer should o'erbend its code. Or break it without ruth. But from the irysting place in fairy lands, The dreamer's yearning heart no trophy brings; Not e'en the memory of a kiss that clings, Or touch of loving hands. And so 1 joy in tbus remem bering yet. And sending after you this raveled strand Of song, half honey sweet with memory and Half bitter with regret. - rtosaline E. Jones. The Dignity of Death. Here lies a common man. His horny hands, Crossed. meekly as a maid's, upon his breast. Show marks of toil, and by bis general dress You judge him to have been an anisan. Doubtless, couid all his lit'e bo written out, The story would not thrill, nor start a tear. He workcd, laughed, loved aud suffered in his time. And now reats peacefully. with upturned face Vlose look belies all struggle in the past. A homely tale; yet, trust me, I have seen The greatest of the earth go stately by, While shouting multitudes beset the way With less of awe. The gap between a king And me, a nameless gazer in the crowd, Seemed not so wide as that which stretches now Betwixt us two- this dead one and myself. Untitled, dumb and deedless, yet he is Transfigurad by a touch from out the skies Until he wears, with all unconscious grace, The strauge and sudden Dignity of Death. -Richard E. Burton. Youth and Age. When all the world 13 young, lad, and all the trees are green. And every goose a swan, iad, and every lass a queen; Then hm tor boot and horse. lad, and ride the wMil away; Young bloinl must have its course, lad, and every dot Uis day. When all the ivorld is old, lad, and all the trees are browu. And all the sport is stale, lad, and all the wheels run down, Creep home and take thy place there, thyearly friends among: God graut you nud one tace there you loved when all was young. ■ -Sidney (M. S. W.) Bulletin. We Roap as We Have Sown. We shape ourselves the joy or fear Of which the romiug lil'e is made. And iill our l'uture's alnn)spheje "With sunshinc or with shade. The tissue of the hfe to be We weave with colors all our own. And in the field of destiuy We reap as wo have sown. -Whittipr.