Gems In Verse

Why dost thou shrink from my approach, O man? Why dost Ihou ever nVo in fear and clinif To my false rival, I.ife? I do but bring Thee rest and calm. Then wherefore dost thou ban And curse me? Since the running of God'splan I have not hurt or hanncd a mortal thing; I have hestowed Bweet bnlni for every sting And peace eternal for earth'l alnnny span. The wild, mail prayiT for comfort, sent in vain To knock at the Indifferent heart of Ufo, I, Death, have answcml. Knoweet the: mot 'tia he, My cruel rival, who Hends all thy pain And reara thy boul out In umneanini; strife? Why dost thou holil tohim. then, shunningiai? -Ella Wheeler Wiloox. 'Home, Sweet Home." When all the lialtles are lost and are won, The last word spoken, the argument done, Wliic-h. irhlch Is the best land under the sun? Thequestion is pondered by yod and nio As our Imrks are aailing Ufe'í mystic sea. Bilt as to thu answrr ra disaijrve. "Oh, the very best land," ays the (xerman, "Í3 mine!" nd hU heart beats quick and his nioist eyca sliine s he loudly BÍnus "Die Wacht am Rhine." Jat the fTrenchnum leer at the German'9 Draise. 'hik' a tribute to Frunce yon hear hlm raise n the fervent strains of the "Marseillaise." t the Frenchman's boastinu the Scotchman cries, What land so bonny beneath the skies s the land where the great Sir Walter lies?" 'hen a Muscovita voice is heard to declare, Were my fellowcreatures but wise and fair 'hey'd dote to a man on the Russian bear." he Irishman answers, with a scornful smile, 3oover the universe, mile by mile, nd you'll flnd no land like tlie Emerald Isle." The Englishman comments in accents bland, "I'm thinking there's only one civilized land. And Brittiin'8 its name, you must understand." The Yankee, risinj;, with deepemotion Exclaims, "I'm tirmly set in the notion My eagle's the geni of the land or theoceanl" So after the battles are lost and won, The last word spoken, the argument done, Wuich. whirh is the best land under the sun? The qucsüon is pondered by you and me Asour barks are sailing life's mystic sea And, on woond thinkins, we all agreel We are not divided, saving in name; In essence each choice is really the same - It sprints from conunon, ineffable flame. Whatovcr uur race, wherever we roam, 'he epot tliat is dearest to each ia home, The toast d rank deepest is "Home.sweet home." - Brandon Ranner. Rest. My feet are earied. and my hands aro tired, My fsoul oppressud, And with destra have I longdesired r.i:t only rest. Tis hard to tr.il when toil is almost vain In barren vvays; Tis harit to sow and never garner grain In harvest days. The burilen of my days is hard to bear, But God Miewa best; Anil I have prayed, but vain has been my pra .i-r. For rest Hweet rest. Tis hard Ui plant in spring anii never reap The autumn field: Tis hard to tilt and when 'tis tilled to weep OVr fruitless ticld. And so 1 cry, a weak and human cryi So beart oppresaed; Aiul si) 1 siiíh, a weak and human sifh, For ftr rwst. My way lias wonnd acrom the desert years. And cares intt-st My uath, and Lhroagh the fiowingof hot tears I piiui for ivm . Twas always ao. When still a child, I laid On Diolher's hreast ' Jly wiaried ültle head. E'en then 1 prayed. As DOW, for rest. And I ani restlesss Htill. Twtll simn be over, For down the west Life's sun is setting, and 1 see the shore Where I shall rest. -Fathur Ryan. The Baby. The little, tottering baby feet, With fal tering steps and slow, With pattering echoessoft and sweet, Into my heart tliey go; Tbey also go in grlmy plays. In muddy pools and dusty ways; Then tlirough the house in trackful mazo They wander to and fro. The baby hands that clasp my neck With touches dear to me Are the satne hands that smash and wreek The inkstand, foul to see; They pound the mirror with a cañe; They rend the manuscript in twain; Widespread destruction they ordain In wasteful jubilee. The dreamy, murmuring voice That cooes its little tune, That makes the listening heart rejoice, Like birds in leafy June, Can wake in midnight dark and still. And all the air with howling flll, Tbat splits the ear with echous shrill, Likc cornetsout of tune. - R. .1. Burdette. 'TU llean'ü'iil. To sce a strong man helping the weak And making thrir cause his own, Then reaping a harvest of grateful love In the Helds whcre his strength was sown- 'Tis a beaatlfnl thlng 10 see! To say a word of emuuraging cheer To a faintlng felluw soul That lacks but a hearty "Friend, godspecd!" To brinf! it home to its goal- 'Tis a beautiful thing to sayl To put one's breast as a bulwark strong In front of some friendless wight To shield hia heart from an ugly wrong And conquer for him his right- 'Tis a heautifui thing to do! -Atlanta Coustitution. Today. Say not tomorrowl Today is your own To parcel as you will. For who can teil that when the day bas üown He chull v living still? Oh, biest ia be whose daily balance sheet Brlngi perfect work to view, Vlose closing day leaves no task incomplete For other hands to do. Tomorrow's but a Jack-o'-lantern sprite That flees the lacgard's clasp; Today'a the power whose hand of gracious might Holds fortune in its grasp. Absence. The shortcst absence brings to every thought Of those we love a solemn tenderness. It is akin to death. Now we confess, Seeing the loneliness their loss has brought, That they were dcarer far than we had taught Ourselves to think. We seo that nothiug lesa Than hope of their return could cheer or blesa Our weary days. Ve wonder how, for aught Or all of fault in them, we could heed Or anger with their loving presence near, Or wound thera by the smallest word or deed. Dear absent love of mine! It did not need Thy absence to teil me thou wert dear. And yet the absence maketh it more olear. - Helen Hunt Jackson. Books should to one of these four ends conduce: For wisdom, piety. deilght or use.