23 JANUARY 1892, Page 17

POETRY.

THE SORROW OF A THRONE.

THE Mountain in his winding-sheet of snow, With bare head drinks the cup of heaven's pain And feels the grinding glacier,—not in vain ; For, to the waiting vales, far, far below He sees his tears in streams of blessings flow.

He loves each nestling cot, each sweet bird's strain, The hum of men, the busy, fruitful plain : His rooted strength for these he would forego, Far harder lot to stand and bear alone, While the vale fills with mists the lower air Hiding its Guardian's care,—so little prized !

But he has seen the Light,—and he must bear.

So too, in lonely grandeur, stands the Throne, Bearing a Nation's load with pains unrecognised !

E. G. KING, D.D.