Aaron Levy Green

NOW dimly thro' our tears we see his Face,

And treasure up his mem'ry in our hearts, He stood in front a model Priest and Man, Grand with a righteous energy for good, Resplendent with a love for all his kind; But most of all his great love for his Race. No work too hard-no cause that wanted help, But he the foremost one in doing good. Honesty and Manliness and Truth,

A trinity of virtues joined in him.

Too soon for us-but not too soon for him
Has he been taken into Rest and Life.
For that perfection which he sought in us
He now has found in Immortality.

Dry up our tears-our God hath taken him;
He knoweth best. And when we go to rest
May it be found his bright example made
Us worthy of joining him on High.

ANONYMOUS.

Baroness de Rothschild

THOUGH life may fade, love never dies,. And all but love, is now a dream

To her, who in her long sleep lies

Enwrapped in flowers, and love supreme. What, if the solemn shadows stir,

To sobbing sighs and broken prayer,

Love folds its mantle over her

And shields her, in its tender care.

Sadly the mystic hours of night

Flit past, still undisturbed by these,

Or sudden glow of morning light
Or waking birds, or waving trees.

She lies, who heeds not days and hours,.
The sweet, soft bird song, nor one tear
Beneath her canopy of flowers
Indifferent now to joy and fear.

Earth's voices touch her not; nor grieve
Her warm and generous heart with pain,
O sorrowing mourners, we believe
That God shall raise her up again,

That in some half-guessed, happier sphere,
Some perfect world, but part confessed
To us poor mortals weeping here,
"He giveth His beloved rest."

And so Beloved, we part from you,

We, clothed by you, and housed and fed,
Not hopeless, though the words are true,
Our blessed Baroness is dead!
The poor, your monument shall raise,
Statelier than sculptured tomb above
That cherished form, of love and praise
Who loved her God; whose God is love.
EMILY MARION HARRIS.

Benjamin Disraeli, Earl of Beaconsfield

Born, December 21, 1804. Died, April 19, 1881.

DIS

ISRAELI dead! The trappings of late days,
The Coronet, the Garter, slip aside,

The Peer's emblazonment, the victor's bays,
The pageantry of pride.

Triumph's mere symbols, badges of success,

Who weighs, who marks them now when all is said In simple words, low-breathed in heaviness?

Disraeli's dead!

So all have known him from that earlier time
Of meteoric and all-daring youth,

And through the season of his dazzling prime;
And so to-day, in sooth,

"Tis Benjamin Disraeli all will mourn, Nor he the less unfeignedly whose lance. Against that shield and crest full oft had borne in combat à outrance.

The fearless fighter and the flashing wit
Swordless and silent! 'Tis a thought to dim
The young Spring sunshine, glancing, as was fit,
Bright at the last on him.

Who knew no touch of winter in his soul,

Holding the Greek gift yet in mind and tongue, And who, though faring past life's common goal, Loved of the gods died young.

Like the Enchantress of the Nile, unstaled
By custom as unchilled by creeping years,
A world-compeller, who not often failed
In fight with his few peers.

Success incarnate, self-inspired, self-raised

To that proud height whereat youth's fancy aimed Whom even those who doubted whilst they praised, Admired, e'en whilst they blamed.

No more that fine invective's flow to hear,
That buoyant wisdom or that biting wit!
To see him and his one sole battle-peer
Sharp counter hit for hit.

No more to picture that impassive face,
That unbetraying eye, that fadeless curl,

No more in plot or policy to trace
The hand of the great Earl!

How strange it seems, and how unwelcome! Rest,
Not least amidst our greatest! Who would dare
Deny thee place and splendour with the best
Who breathed our English air?

Peace, lasting Peace that strife no more shall break,
With Honour none may challenge, crown thee now
Wherever laid, nor Faction's self would shake
The laurel from thy brow.

And England, who for thy quenched brightness grieves,
Garlands the sword no more to leave its sheath,
And, turning from thy simple gravestone, leaves
A tear upon the wreath.
PUNCH.

Peace-and Honor

HUSHED are the sounds of party-strife

In reverence round the quiet bed,

As all the busy streams of Life

Seem stayed beside one spirit fled:
And England sends the message on,
To West and East,-a great man gone.

He, but a few short days ago

Held in a nation's half-mistrust,
Here feared, there followed, lying low,
Where all may trample on his dust,
Lies safe with laurels round his brow,
His party's then, his England's now.

Strong loves he conquered on his way,
Strong as the enmities he woke,
And the loosed passions of the day

In praise and anger round him broke:

Anger and Enmity's o'erthrown,

Death has for sister, Love alone.

Men called him alien, deemed him set
On dreams of empire not of ours,
And prone true empire to forget

In the long clash of jarring powers: But England's 'scutcheon blazons still The motto of his life,-I will.

In steady purpose, steady toil,

He followed, and he won, the prize, Which through the Senate's fierce turmoil Lighted, but dazzled not, his eyes: Nor rank, nor fortune, smoothed the course; He dared, and conquered, and by force.

As patient as the great should be,

As watchful as the purposed are,
He marked power's ebbing, flowing sea,

Now sparkling near, now murmuring far,
Till with strong hand he grasped the helm,
Through storm and shine to steer a realm.

And when, Life's threescore years and ten
In the long passage overpast,

He yielded up the helm again,

He stood as steady to the last: Not Cæsar's robe, when Cæsar died, Was folded with a calmer pride.

Calmly he gave the reins of State,

As first he held them, self-possessed; And undismayed, as unelate,

Turned to the love once loved the best, And wooed, from strife of tongues apart, The Muse of Story to his heart.

So, England's Minister, good-night!

Nor praise, nor blame, can move thee now;
Safe from the fierce and public light
Which beat upon thy vessel's prow:

Thy place is with the great alone,
Not one's nor other's-England's own.

HERMAN C. MERIVALE.