he blood and ruin justice-reign from zone to zone.

Idealistic dreamer, say you? In your youth you once felt so?
Well, I only pray life's sunset, bowing down my head with snow,
Shall not swerve me from my purpose, though the victor-laurels twine
In my reach, and if forsaking my convictions they are mine.

Do not so condemn the realists, rhymesters, authors, and their way,
Just because they point about us to the errors of to-day;
Spare them, though they gaze not upward from our self-wrought
piteous plight,
For, though blinded and despairing, they are struggling toward the
light.

Let the realist dip his falcon in the boiling blood of life,
Tracing in heartrending horror all the hoary wrongs and strife,
Till the world shall sick and sadden of its folly and its sin,
Hearkening through the roar of traffic to the still small voice
within--

Voice which murmurs Christ's own message as we circle round the sun:
That, though greed and creed divide us, still humanity is one--
One in all its godlike longing, one in all its hopes and fears,
With its calvaries, scaffolds, hemlocks, and its seas of unshed
tears.

Then this star of sorrow swinging through the vast immortal void
Shall, regenerated, slumber while man's heart is overjoyed,
Thrilled with yearnings altruistic, triumphing o'er clods of clay,
As we march into the love-light of the grand Millennial day.

JOHN BROWN.

BY COATES KINNEY.

The Great Republic bred her free-born sons
To smother conscience in the coward's hush,
And had to have a freedom-champion's
Blood sprinkled in her face to make her blush.

One Will became a passion to avenge
Her shame--a fury consecrate and weird,
As if the old religion of Stonehenge
Amid our weakling worships reappeared.

It was a drawn sword of Jehovah's wrath,
Two-edged and flaming, waved back to a host
Of mighty shadows gathering on its path,
Soon to emerge as soldiers, when the ghost

Of John Brown should the lines of battle form.
When John Brown crossed the Nation's Rubicon,
Him Freedom followed in the battle-storm,
And John Brown's soul in song went marching on.

Though John Brown's body lay beneath the sod,
His soul released the winds and loosed the flood:
The Nation wrought his will as hest of God,
A