ecret learned in silent joys of home,
A secret whence the lights of being come.

So guided by this lamp, O wife and mother,
Turn thine eyes hither to the Western shore,
Where red streams run and iron thunders roar!

We watch the star of Freedom slowly rise
And glimmer through the changes of the time,
While errors beat their low retreating chime.

We ask for nought, we need not to be wise,
We find both men and women at their post,
Equal and different in one mighty host.

Divided suffering, unity of cries,--
Divided labor, unity of life,--
Divided struggle, one reward for strife.

As autumn winds sweep over tossing seas
And reach the happy shore, and fling the flowers
And lower each gorgeous head by their rude powers,--

So sweep the winds of war through quiet leas
And bend our budding treasures in the dust,
Yet Freedom's cause shall neither mar nor rust.

The seed shall spring where none can thirst or freeze,
Shall bear a floweret fairer than the old,
As lilies shine before all blossoms told:

A liberty for woman in her home,
Bound by the only chains which give her peace,--
Immortal chains which death may not release:

A liberty where Justice wide may roam,
And Reverence sit the chief at every feast,
With Love as master, and Contempt as least:

A liberty where the oppressed may come,
The black and white, the woman and the man,
And recognize themselves in Heaven's wide plan

Then while the morning odors of the sea
Blow from the westward and caress thy brow,
Remember where thy loving sisters bow:

Perchance beneath the hand of Victory,
Which leaves a tear and then a silentness,
While crowds move by forgetful of one less;

Or where a burst of gracious ecstasy
Rising shall fill the eastward flitting air,
And with thy spirit mount the hills of prayer.

REGNARD.

Since, in modern literature, there are so few really good comedies that
we may count them all upon our fingers, a man who has written two must
be worth knowing. We ask permission to introduce Jean Francois Regnard
to those who do not know him.

He comes recommended by the great critic Boileau, who liked him,
quarrelled with him, and made up again. Forty years later, Voltaire
wrote that the man who did not enjoy Regnard was not capable of
appreciating Moliere. Then came M. de