Long the clouds so grim and leaden
All the face of nature deaden,
Till the dawn begins to redden
Signaling the day to all,

Then a breeze of better feeling
Freer trust and honest dealing,
Sweeps across the sky, revealing
Spaces through the gloomy pall.

From the depths so pure and holy
Come the star-beams, faintly, slowly,
Joyful gleams to high and lowly--
Thus our long lost stars return.
Slowly works the gracious planner,
Till upon our blessed banner,
In the old accustomed manner
All its glories shine and burn.

Peace, the giver of great blessing.
Now, our length and breadth possessing,
Full of comfort and caressing
Smiles from out the sky at last,
States united and co-equal

In their olden accents speak well
Of a bright and happy sequel
To the story of the past.

Past at length the nation's quarrel,
War has taught its wholesome moral,
Foemen meet to twine the laurel
For the heroes whom they fought.
Past the strife of race and color,
Lines of passion, growing duller,
Fade before the freer, fuller,
Better ways that God has wrought.

Sad was war, but sweet our peace is; Blest is sorrow when it ceases;

With our hope our strength increases,

And anew our race we run,
Sections tending to each other,
Just as brother grows to brother,
When the passions sink and smother,
And the day of strife is done.

Northland, Southland, Eastland, Westland,
None the worst, and none the best land,
All together form the best land,
Fused in war's fierce furnace heat.
Never more shall fate divide us,
Ne'er again the furies ride us,
Nor can any ill betide us,

While the Union's heart shall beat.

Oh, if peace could but restore us,
To this banner floating o'er us,
Brothers who have gone before us,
Whom to-day we meet to mourn!
But they see with clearer vision,
In their far-off homes elysian,
And partake of our fruition,
Το new existence born.

Nevermore in strife contending,
From the heaven above us bending,
While our praise and prayer ascending
Tell them they are not forgot.

Joyfully they now discover

That the white-robed angels hover
All their resting places over,
Hallowing each sacred spot.

Nevermore the gallant legions,
Yonder in the starry regions,
Strive for this or that allegiance.
All with them is peace and love.
We, as they, past our defilement,
Guiltless now of vain revilement,
Find at last our reconcilement;
Peace is here, as there above.

Let us, then, tread softly, lightly,
And with garlands gleaming brightly,
Make the resting places sightly
Of our heroes 'neath the sod.
All were ours, and all together,
Through the battles' bitter weather,
Loosed for us their human tether;
All together went to God.

Let us fit our new condition,
So that never false ambition
Shall prevail against our mission,
Or disturb our high career;
And remember in our weeping,
Though their bodies still are sleeping,
That our faithful dead are keeping
Watch above the living here.

Ours the hopes of saints and sages,
Ours to spread on history's pages
Records that to future ages
Show a people grand, sublime.
Ours to tell the sweetest story,
Ours to teach the truest glory,
Till the wheeling world grows hoary,
And we near the end of time.

Thus our gay and gleaming garlands,
Fairest fruits of near and far lands
Tell to those who dwell in star lands,
What is now and is to be.

Thus our deeds to-day are showing
How the breeze of peace is blowing,
And a future beyond knowing,
Waits the continent of the free.

E. T. Willet.

UNCROWNED AMONG THE NATIONS.

She stands uncrowned among the nations! Her sufferings have been unexampled and her patient endurance towers up among the facts that are pyramids in history. After driving the Danish viking into the seas, she has seen the Anglo-Norman robber wave his banner o'er the loveliest spots in her realm. But through treachery and famine, through glory and disgrace, through persecution and death, she remains after a thousand years, the unsullied Queen, upon whose bright escutcheon there is not a stain save the silver dropping of her own

tears.

She stands uncrowned among the nations, a weeping mother, whose only solace is wandering among the tombs of her children. She rests her wearied limbs beside the sarcophagus of O'Connell-and over Glasnevin cemetery spreads a glorious Irish twilight. Above-the sun retiring after his long journey disrobes on the horizon's edge, and carelessly scatters his garments of crimson, emerald and gold, upon the floor of heaven. The lovely queen of night glides forth upon the scene, and from her ebony sieve shakes whole myriads of stars. Below--the tall shafts of monumental granite throw their long shadows, like a canopy of black spears, over the little mounds at their feet, and the roses, and the lilies, and the blue forget-me-nots in their circling guard of shamrocks, awake from their vesper sleep, re-open their petals, and telephone in odorous voices sweet greetings to their shining sisters blossoming in the infinite meadows of heaven. The soul of the Liberator hovers around the scene, and after paying the tribute of a bended knee to the Lady of his Love with a divine wand, he touches his skeleton body in

its marble shroud, and forth from the fleshless lips come the true words he was so wont to use,

66

Hereditary bondmen, know ye not

Who would be free themselves must strike the blow."

She stands uncrowned among the nations! The summer sunlight falls unheeded upon the curls of her golden hair, and the winter frost, unnoted, scatters his clusters of pearls upon her livery of mourning. But even amid the hail, the rain, and the storm, she finds it ecstasy to sit beside the window of John of Tuam and listen to the soft strains of her own harp as it responds in melodious voice to the touch of the fast withering fingers of the greatest of her living sons. And when the songs of her ancient bards in her own language as an accompaniment fall tremulously from his aged lips, a delirium of memories crowd upon her and she vanishes into the night.

She stands uncrowned among the nations! Kneeling on the green sward of Robert Emmet's grave and resting her head upon its unmarked headstone, she clasps her hands around it and in an agony of prayer, cries out, "O, my God, when shall his epitaph be written?" At the early morning she is in Clare listening to Charles Stewart Parnell. She sees at one end of the platform the Irish flag and at the other the American. She is not satisfied-clad in her royal robes, albeit of black, she ascends that platform and taking in one hand her own banner of green, and in the other the "Stars and Stripes," under which her exiled children find so secure a shelter, with her own deft fingers, she irrevocably intertwines them, and upon their dual folds, in letters of living light, she inscribes the prophetic device: "These together shall conquer."

She stands uncrowned among the nations! Doffing her queenly garments, and in the attire of a felon, she sits beside Michael Davitt in his lonely prison cell. Twining her arms about his neck with all a