POETRY.
" 0 GIVE my Sons," the Grecian mother cried,
"Whose pious arms have dragged thy heavy car From yonder town to this thy shrine afar, Thy last best gift, to mortals most denied I" The Goddess hearkened,—and that night they died.
So uhen this English boy prayed that no bar Might hold him from the front rank of the war, The front rank of quick death Fate opened wide.
Why, then, be anxious for the long-drawn years, Since by her acts omniscient Fortune saith Their profit is outweighed,---their hopes and fears,
All gain of husbanding the failing breath, All sweets of laughter and all woe of tears,—
By golden opportunity of Death?
It.—" LOVE AND DE A.TII."
(SUGGESTED BY G. F, WATTS' PICTURE IN TED GROSVENOR GALLERY.) WITH haughty brow, and hollow, sightless eyes,
The great Marauder stands before the gate Where Love doth as a patient sentry wait,— Love, from whose presence every sorrow flies, Love, at whose feet men cast whate'er they prize.
With lifted hand he strikes, and crosses straight The threshold of Life's House. Alas ! prostrate,. Amid his flowers, the gentle guardian lies.
Although I boldly cried, "We are but men, And since a thousand ills our path beset, And all but Death thy bitter-sweets repel, Take courage, Love ! and speed thy shafts again, Although we die,"—I shall not soon forget This dreadful vision, and brave sentinel. •
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