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Sad escort are these tones that mourn
To one on life's last journey borne.
Ah, it is the wife beloved!

Ah, it is the faithful mother,

Whom the Shades' dark prince doth wrest
From a doting husband's breast,

From the group of children, whom
She bore him in her early bloom,

Whom she beheld with mother's pride
Grow up and flourish by her side!
Ah, rent is that sweet bond of home,
And never can again be knit !
For in the Shadow-land she dwells,
Whose love maternal ordered it.
No more her gentle sway is known,

No more her wakeful care and pains;
Within those widowed chambers lone
A stranger, hard and loveless, reigns.

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Earth shrouds her then

In black; but night
To the citizen

Brings no affright,

Night, that from their darkling den
Rouses the wicked, their prowl to make;
For the eye of Law is ever awake.

Holy Order, with every kind

Of blessing fraught, who like doth bind
To like by ties, gall not nor fray,
Who did of towns the foundations lay,
And into them from wood and wild
The savage, that shuns his kind, beguiled;
Entered the hovels of men, and taught
The virtues by gentle manners wrought,
And wove, of all ties the dearest, pride
In the land where our forefathers died.

Industrious hands, their labors plying,
Work on in friendly league, and so,
Each in his craft with other vying,

Their powers to higher achievement grow.
To guard fair freedom's sacred treasure,
Master and man their force unite,
Each in his station finds his pleasure,
And pays the scorner slight for slight.
Toil is the burgher's crown of merit,

His guerdon some true blessing won;
Kings from the state which they inherit

Take honor, we from the things we've done.

Oh, blessed peace,

Oh, Concord sweet,

Hover, oh hover,

With kindly sway,

Over this town of ours, I pray !

Oh, may it never dawn, the day,

When grim War's ruthless crew

Shall riot this calm valley through!

When the heavens, which evening's mellow red

Colors with hues so fair,

Are all aflame with the ghastly glare

Of blazing towns, and the havoc dread

Of villages burning there!

Now, break me down the walls there! They
In our work have done their part—

That our successful casting may

Rejoice both eye and heart.

Smite, stroke on stroke,

Till the cover's broke !

Ere the bell can rise from the pit below,
The mould must into pieces go.

The master may, when all is ready,
Shatter the mould, for sage is he,
But woe betide, if in fiery eddy
The hot ore is by itself set free.

With thunderous crash, blind-raging, from its
Ruptured cell, it bursts in flame,
And fiery wreck and ruin vomits,

As though from the jaws of hell it came. Where brute force rules, unchecked by brains, Form cannot be, mere chaos reigns;

When the populace breaks from restraint away, Alas for their weal on that woful day!

Woe, when in cities, smouldering under,
Fire spreads and spreads with silent force,
And the people, tearing their chains asunder,
In self-deliverance seek recourse.
Then, tumult tugging the ropes, the bell
Peals on the ear like some madman's yell,
And what was vowed only to peaceful things
To ravage and rapine the summons rings.

Liberty and Equality! High

Through street and alley swells the cry!
The peaceful citizen flies to arms,

With gathering crowds street, market swarms,
And ruffian bands, that erst shunned the day,
Come trooping about, as they scent their prey.
Then women turn to hyenas there,

And make of horrors a scoff, a jest, And rend with panther-teeth and tear

The heart yet warm from some hated breast. Nothing is sacred more; flung loose

Is every tie of restraint and shame ;
The Good gives place to the Bad, and all
The Vices run riot, uncurbed by blame.

To rouse the lion in jungle bedded

Is perilous, fell is the tiger's tooth,

But of all dread things to be chiefly dreaded
Is man, divested of reason and ruth.

Woe to those who hand light's heaven-sent torch
To the purblind fool! Its kindly ray

Is no light for him, it can only scorch,
And cities and countries in ashes lay.

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And this be the vocation still,
The Master framed her to fulfil !
With heaven's blue canopy above her,
High o'er our toils and struggles here,
Shall she, the thunder's neighbor, hover,
And border on the starry sphere;
A voice she, shall be from above,

Even like the shining starry throng,
That, moving, praise their Maker's love,
And lead the circling year along.
To solemn things, and only such,
Let her metallic music chime,
And let her, swiftly swinging, touch,
Each hour, the flying skirts of time!
Let her to fate an utterance lend,

Herself without a heart to feel,

And on life's change and chance attend
With evermore recurring peal.
And, as the clang dies out, that, riding
Far on the breezes, loudly boomed,
So may she teach, nought is abiding,
All things of earth to death are doomed.

Now tackle to the ropes and prise
The bell up from the pit, that so
She to the realm of sound may rise,
High up aloft, where the breezes blow!
Pull, pull, lads! See,

She waves, swings free!

Joy to our town may this portend,

PEACE the first message be she forth shall send !

-Blackwood's Magazine.

THE DAY AFTER TO-MORROW.

BY ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.

HISTORY is much decried; it is a tissue of errors, we are told, no doubt correctly; and rival historians expose each other's blunders with gratification. Yet the worst historian has a clearer view of the period he studies than the best of us can hope to form of that in which we live.

The obscurest epoch is to day; and that for a thousand reasons of inchoate tendency, conflicting report, and sheer mass and multiplicity of experience; but chiefly, perhaps, by reason of an insidious shifting of landmarks. Parties and ideas continually move, but not by measurable marches on a stable course; the political soil itself steals forth by imperceptible degrees, like a travelling glacier, carrying on its bosom not only political parties but their flagNEW SERIES.-VOL. XLV., No. 6

posts and cantonments; so that what appears to be an eternal city founded on hills is but a flying island of Laputa. It is for this reason in particular that we are all becoming Socialists without knowing it; by which I would not in the least refer to the acute case of Mr. Hyndman and his horn-blowing supporters, sounding their trumps of a Sunday within the walls of our individualist Jericho-but to the stealthy change that has come over the spirit of Englishmen and English legislation. A little while ago, and we were still for liberty; crowd a few more thousands on the bench of Government,' we seemed to cry; keep her head direct on liberty, and we cannot help but come to port. This is over; laissez-faire

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declines in favor; our legislation grows authoritative, grows philanthropical, bristles with new duties and new penalties, and casts a spawn of inspectors, who now begin, note-book in hand, to darken the face of England. It may be right or wrong, we are not trying that; but one thing it is beyond doubt it is Socialism in action, and the strange thing is that we scarcely know it.

run.

Liberty has served us a long while, and it may be time to seek new altars. Like all other principles, she has been proved to be self-exclusive in the long She has taken wages besides (like all other virtues) and dutifully served Mammon; so that many things we were accustomed to admire as the benefits of freedom and common to all, were truly benefits of wealth, and took their value from our neighbors' poverty. A few shocks of logic, a few disclosures (in the journalistic phrase) of what the freedom of manufacturers, landlords, or shipowners may imply for operatives, tenants or seamen, and we not unnaturally begin to turn to that other pole of hope, beneficent tyranny. Freedom, to be desirable, involves kindness, wisdom, and all the virtues of the free; but the free man as we have seen him in action has been, as of yore, only the master of many helots; and the slaves are still illfed, ill-clad, ill-taught, ill-housed, insolently entreated, and driven to their mines and workshops by the lash of famine. So much, in other men's affairs, we have begun to see clearly; we have begun to despair of virtue in these other men, and from our seat in Parliament begin to discharge upon them, thick as arrows, the host of our inspectors. The landlord has long shaken his head over the manufacturer; those who do business on land have lost all trust in the virtues of the shipowner; the professions look askance upon the retail traders, and have even started their co-operative stores to ruin them; and from out the smoke-wreaths of Birmingham a finger has begun to write. upon the wall the condemnation of the landlord. Thus, piece by piece, do we condemn each other, and yet not perceive the conclusion, that our whole estate is somewhat damnable. Thus, piece by piece, each acting against his neighbor, each sawing away the branch

on which some other interest is seated, do we apply in detail our Socialistic remedies, and yet not perceive that we are all laboring together to bring in Socialism at large. A tendency so stupid and so selfish is like to prove invincible; and if Socialism be at all a practicable rule of life, there is every chance that our grandchildren will see the day and taste the pleasures of existence in something far liker an ant-heap than any previous human polity. And this not in the least because of the voice of Mr. Hyndman or the horns of his followers; but by the mere glacier movement of the political soil, bearing forward on its bosom, apparently undisturbed, the proud camps of Whig and Tory. If Mr. Hyndman were a man of keen humor, which is far from my conception of his character, he might rest from his troubling and look on the walls of Jericho begin already to crumble and dissolve. That great servile war, the Armageddon of money and numbers, to which we looked forward when young, becomes more and more unlikely; and we may rather look to see a peaceable and blindfold evolution, the work of dull men immersed in political tactics and dead to political results.

The principal scene of this comedy lies, of course, in the House of Commons; it is there, besides, that the details of this new evolution (if it proceed) will fall to be decided; so that the state of Parliament is not only diagnostic of the present but fatefully prophetic of the future. Well, we all know what Parliament is, and we are all ashamed of it.. We may pardon it some faults, indeed, on the ground of Irish obstruction-a bitter trial, which it supports with notable good humor. But the excuse is merely local; it cannot apply to similar bodies in America and France; and what are we to say of these? President Cleveland's letter may serve as a picture of the one; a glance at almost any paper will convince us of the weakness of the other. Decay appears to have seized on the organ of popular government in every land; and this just at the moment when we begin to bring to it, as to an oracle of justice, the whole skein of our private affairs to be unravelled, and ask it, like a new Messiah, to take upon itself our frailties

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