REFLECTION.

Rome, Florence. Venice-noble, fair and quaint,
They reign in robes of magic round me here;
But fading, blotted, dim, a picture faint,
With spell more silent, only pleads a tear.
Plead not! Thou hast my heart, O picture dim!

I see the fields, I see the autumn hand

Of God upon the maples! Answer Him
With weird, translucent glories, ye that stand
Like spirits in scarlet and in amethyst!
I see the sun break over you: the mist
On hills that lift from iron bases grand
Their heads superb!- the dream, it is my
native land.

WILLIAM DOUW LIGHTHALL.

"O World-God, give me Wealth!" the Egyptian cried.

His prayer was granted. High as heaven behold

Palace and Pyramid; the brimming tide Of lavish Nile washed all his land with gold.

Armies of slaves toiled ant-wise at his feet, World-circling traffic roared through mart and street,

His priests were gods, his spice-balmed kings enshrined

Set death at naught in rock-ribbed charnels deep.

Seek Pharaoh's race to-day, and ye shall find

Rust and the moth, silence and dusty sleep.

"O World-God, give me Beauty!" cried the Greek.

His prayer was granted. All the earth be

came

Plastic and vocal to his sense; each peak, Each grove, each stream, quick with Promethean flame,

Peopled the world with imaged grace and light.

The lyre was his, and his the breathing might

Of the immortal marble, his the play Of diamond-pointed thought and golden tongue.

Go seek the sunshine race. Ye find to-day A broken column and a lute unstrung.