pang of loss,--
The strength that sinks beneath so sore a cross.
"_--Heedless and careless, still the world wags on,
And leaves me broken ... Oh, my son! my son!_"

Yet--think of this!--
Yea, rather think on this!--
He died as few men get the chance to die,--
Fighting to save a world's morality.
He died the noblest death a man may die,
Fighting for God, and Right, and Liberty;--
And such a death is Immortality.

"_He died unnoticed in the muddy trench._"
Nay,--God was with him, and he did not blench;
Filled him with holy fires that nought could quench,
And when He saw his work below was done,
He gently called to him,--"_My son! My son!
I need thee for a greater work than this.
Thy faith, thy zeal, thy fine activities
Are worthy of My larger liberties;_"--
--Then drew him with the hand of welcoming grace,
And, side by side, they climbed the heavenly ways.

LORD, SAVE THEIR SOULS ALIVE!

Lord, save their souls alive!
And--for the rest,--
We leave it all to Thee;
Thou knowest best.

Whether they live or die,
Safely they'll rest,
Every true soul of them,
Thy Chosen Guest.

Whether they live or die,
They chose the best,
They sprang to Duty's call,
They stood the test.

If they come back to us--
How grateful we!
If not,--we may not grieve;
They are with Thee.

No soul of them shall fail,
Whate'er the past.
Who dies for Thee and Thine
Wins Thee at last.

Who, through the fiery gates,
Enter Thy rest,
Greet them as conquerors,--
Bravest and best!

Every white soul of them,
Ransomed and blest,--
Wear them as living gems,
Bear them as living flames,
High on Thy breast!

THE ALABASTER BOX

The spikenard was not wasted;--
All down the tale of years,
The fragrance of that broken alabaster
Still clings to Mary's memory,
As clung its perfume sweet unto her Master.

Not less than Martha,
Mary served her Lord,
Although she but sat worshipping,
While Martha spread the board.

They also minister to Christ,
And render noblest duty,
Whose sweet hands touch life's common rounds
To Fragrance and to Beauty.

WHITE BROTHER

Midway between the flaming lines he lay,
A tumbled heap of blood, and sweat, and clay;
--God's son!

And none could succour him. First this one tried,
Then that ... and then another ... and they died;