be learned no more?
Is the Prince of Peace appearing of whom your prophets tell?
Lo, here is the Prince of Darkness, and here is the reign of Hell.'

And the angel laughed in scorn, and said, in his fearful glee:
'Aha, of all earth's sights, this is the one for me.'

The other angel spake, and his face was fair and bright,
'And of all earth's sights to me this is the noblest sight.
At the touch of a hand profane laid on its sacred things,
Countless as heaven's bright army, to arms a nation springs.
Thousands of peaceful homes give up their cherished ones,
Young wives give up their bridegrooms, old mothers give their sons;
Manhood gives up its work, and eager youth its dream:
The reign of sense is over, the spirit rules supreme.
No victims of brute rage, no hirelings trained to fight,
But men in calmest manhood, fresh from the hearthstone's light.
This right arm, maimed and crippled, was dedicate to art;
All high and noble purpose beat with that pulseless heart;
Pure bridal kisses linger upon this gory brow;
On those fair curls a mother's blessing rested even now:
Such men,--the best and dearest, the very life of life,
Earth has no ransom for them,--have hastened to the strife.
'The nobler days have come when men must do and die,'
Methinks I hear them say, with calm, uplifted eye:
'Our human lives are nothing; thy will, great God, is all;
We come to work thy work, we have heard the heavenly call;

Thy right hand holdeth chance, thy strong arm ruleth fate,
To thee, the God of battles, our lives are consecrate.
Not at the foeman's call, not to the foeman's sword,
But we come at the disposal and the summons of the Lord.'

'This,' said the second angel, and his smile was fair to see,
'Of all the sights on earth is the noblest one to me;
No brutelike men are these, nay, rather to my eyes,
Men raised to angels' heights of calm self-sacrifice.'
Yet he wept, and weeping prayed, 'Oh, may these sons of men
Keep faith and strength and patience, till thou comest, Christ, again!'

A TRAGEDY OF ERROR.

I.

A low English phaeton was drawn up before the door of the post office of
a French seaport town. In it was seated a lady, with her veil down and
her parasol held closely over her face. My story begins with a gentleman
coming out of the office and handing her a letter.

He stood beside the carriage a moment before getting in. She gave him
her para