FIRST VOICE.

"Faint not, though your bleeding feet
O'er these slippery paths of sleet
Move but painfully and slowly;
Other feet than yours have bled;
Other tears than yours been shed.
Courage! lose not heart or hope;
On the mountain's southern slope
Lies Jerusalem the Holy!"

CONCERT.

As a white rose in its pride,
By the wind in summer-tide

Tossed and loosened from the branch,
Showers its petals o'er the ground,
From the distant mountain's side,
Scattering all its snows around,
With mysterious, muffled sound,
Loosened, fell the avalanche.
Voices, echoes far and near,
Roar of winds and waters blending,
Mists uprising, clouds impending,
Filled them with a sense of fear,
Formless, nameless, never ending.

Repeat Chorus, "Give us back," etc., ending thus:

HELIOTROPE.

AMID the chapel's chequered gloom
She laughed with Dora and with Flora,
And chattered in the lecture-room-
The saucy little Sophomora!
Yet while (as in her other schools)
She was a privileged transgressor,
She never broke the simple rules
Of one particular professor.

But when he spoke of varied lore,
Paroxytones and moods potential,
She listened with a face that wore

A look half fond, half reverential.
To her that earnest voice was sweet,
And, though her love had no confessor,
Her girlish heart lay at the feet
Of that particular professor.

And he had learned, among his books,
That held the lore of ages olden,
To watch those ever-changing looks,
The wistful eyes, and tresses golden,
That stirred his pulse with passion's pain
And thrilled his soul with soft desire,
Longing for youth to come again,
Crowned with its coronet of fire.

Her sunny smiles, her winsome ways,
Were more to him than all his knowledge,
And she preferred his words of praise
To all honors of the college.

Yet "What am foolish I to him ?"

She whispered to her one confessor.
"She thinks me old, and gray, and grim,"
In silence pondered the professor.

Yet once, when Christmas bells were rung
Above ten thousand solemn churches,
And swelling anthems, grandly sung,
Pealed through the dim cathedral arches-
Ere home returning, filled with hope,
Softly she stole by gate and gable,
And a sweet spray of heliotrope
Left on his littered study-table.

Nor came she more, from day to day,
Like sunshine through the shadows rifting;
Above her grave, far, far away,

The ever-silent snows were drifting:
And those who mourned her winsome face,
Found in its stead a swift successor,

And loved another in her place-
All, save the silent, old professor.

But in the tender twilight gray,

Shut from the sight of carping critic,
His lonely thoughts would often stray
From Vedic verse and tongues Semitic-
Bidding the ghost of perished hope

Mock with its past the sad possessor

Of the dead spray of heliotrope
That once she gave the old professor.
From "Acta Columbiana."

THE LAST RIDE.

HIGH o'er the snow-capped peaks of blue the stars are out to-night,

And the silver crescent moon hangs low. I watched it on my right,

Moving above the pine-tops tall, a bright and gentle shape,

While I listened to the tales you told of peril and escape.

Then, mingled with your voices low, I heard the rumbling sound

Of wheels adown the farther slope, that sought the level ground;

And suddenly, from memories that never can grow dim,

Flashed out once more the day when last I rode with English Jem.

'Twas here, in wild Montana, I took my hero's

gauge.

From Butte to Deer Lodge, four-in-hand, he drove the mountain stage;

And many a time, in sun or storm, safe mounted at his side,

I whiled away with pleasant talk the long day's weary ride.

Jem's faithful steeds had served him long, of mettle true and tried:

One sought in vain for trace of blows upon their glossy hide;

And to each low command he spoke the leader's

nervous ear

Bent eager, as a lover waits his mistress' voice to hear.

With ringing crack the leathern whip, that else had idly hung,

Kept time for many a rapid mile to English songs he sung;

And yet, despite his smile, he seemed a lonely man to be,

With not one soul to claim him kin on this side of the sea.

But after I had known him long, one mellow even

ing-time

He told me of his English Rose, who withered in her prime;

And how, within the churchyard green, he laid her down to rest.

With her sweet babe, a blighted bud, upon her frozen breast.

"I could not stay," he said, "where she had left me all alone!

The very hedge-rose that she loved I could not look upon!

I could not hear the mavis sing, or see the long grass wave,

And every little daisy-bank seemed but my darling's grave!

"Yet somehow-why, I cannot tell-but when I wandered here,