17 APRIL 1880, Page 13

POETRY.

DEMOCRACY.

I HEAR the beat of its countless feet

And the wind of its ceaseless sigh : Nothing great may live that does not give To its force, as it rushes by.

But under its feet rich grows the wheat, And the dry rock pours out water. They say it is evil, or even the Devil ; It is that,—or else God's daughter.