Calmly as to a night's repose,-.
Like flowers at set of sun.

Come to the bridal chamber, Death,
Come to the mother, when she feels,
For the first time, her first-born's breath;
Come, when the blessed seals

That close the pestilence are broke,
And crowded cities wail its stroke:
Come in consumption's ghastly form,
The earthquake shock, the ocean storm;
Come when the heart beats high and warm
With banquet song and dance and wine;
And thou art terrible: the tear,

The groan, the knell, the pall, the bier,
And all we know, or dream, or fear,
Of agony, are thine.

But to the hero, when his sword

Has won the battle for the free,
Thy voice sounds like a prophet's word,
And in its hollow tones are heard

The thanks of millions yet to be.
Come when his task of fame is wrought;
Come, with her laurel leaf, blood-bought;
Come in her crowning hour,— and then
Thy sunken eye's unearthly light
To him is welcome as the sight

Of sky and stars to prison'd men;
Thy grasp is welcome as the hand
Of brother in a foreign land;
Thy summons welcome as the cry
That told the Indian isles were nigh

To the world-seeking Genoese,

When the land wind, from woods of plain And orange groves, and fields of balm, Blew o'er the Haytien seas.

Bozzaris! with the storied brave
Greece nurtured in her glory's time,
Rest thee: there is no prouder grave,
Even in her own proud clime.

She wore no funeral weeds for thee,

Nor bade the dark hearse wave its plume, Like torn branch from death's leafless tree, In sorrow's pomp and pageantry,

The heartless luxury of the tomb;

But she remembers thee as one

Long loved, and for a season gone; For thee her poet's lyre is wreathed, Her marble wrought, her music breathed; For thee she rings the birthday bells; Of thee her babes' first lisping tells; For thee her evening prayer is said, At palace couch and cottage bed: Her soldier, closing with the foe, Gives for thy sake a deadlier blow; His plighted maiden, when she fears For him, the joy of her young years, Thinks of thy fate, and checks her tears; And she, the mother of thy boys, Though in her eye and faded cheek Is read the grief she will not speak,

The memory of her buried joys,— And even she who gave thee birth Will, by their pilgrim-circled hearth,

L

Talk of thy doom without a sigh;
For thou art Freedom's now, and Fame's,
One of the few, th' immortal names
That were not born to die.

While memory bids me weep thee,
Nor thoughts nor words are free;
The grief is fixed too deeply

That mourns a man like thee.

SUMMER RAIN

HENRY WARD BEECHER

NOTE TO THE PUPIL. — Henry Ward Beecher was born at Litchfield, Conn., in 1813. As a boy he gave no evidence of unusual ability; he rather seemed dull. He had a very poor verbal memory and was not fond of study. He graduated from Amherst and from Lane Seminary and began preaching in Indiana. He afterwards became pastor of Plymouth Church. As a preacher, lecturer, orator, or writer he was one of the most popular men of his time. He was by nature a reformer, and was an ardent antislavery man and a strong advocate of temperance. He interested himself in all that tended to the betterment of humanity. Spurgeon declared him "the most myriad-minded man since Shakespeare." His speeches in Great Britain during the early days of the Civil War were most remarkable, especially his Liverpool address, which you should read if you have opportunity. Among his more popular books were "Sermons to Young Men," "Star Papers," and "Life Thoughts." He wrote one novel, " Norwood." As a picture of New England life and character it is a remarkable book, and well worth reading. Mr. Beecher died in 1887. The selections given are made by permission of Fords, Howard, & Hulbert.

MEN begin to look at the signs of the weather. It is

long since much rain fell.

The ground is a little dry,
The garden bakes. Trans-

and the road is a good deal dusty. planted trees are thirsty. Wheels are shrinking and tires are looking dangerous. Men speculate on the clouds; they begin to calculate how long it will be, if no rain falls, before the potatoes will suffer; the oats, the corn, the grass-everything. To be sure, nothing is yet suffering, but then

Rain, rain, rain! All day, all night steady raining. Will it never stop? The hay is out and spoiling. The rain washes the garden. The ground is full. All things have drunk their fill. The springs revive, the meadows are wet; the rivers run discolored with the soil from every hill. Smoking cattle reek under the sheds. Hens, and fowl in general, shelter and plume. The sky is leaden. The clouds are full yet. The long fleece covers the mountains. The hills are capped in white. The air is full of moisture.

Rain, rain, rain! The wind roars down the chimney. The birds are silent. No insects chirp. Closets smell moldy. The barometer is dogged. We thump it, but it will not get up. It seems to have an understanding with the weather. The trees drip, shoes are muddy, carriage and wagon are splashed with dirt. Paths are soft. So it is. When it is clear we want rain, and when it rains we wish it would shine.

But, after all, how lucky for grumblers that they are not allowed to meddle with the weather, and that it is put above their reach! What a scrambling, selfish, mischief-making time we should have, if men undertook to parcel out the seasons and the weather according to their several humors or interests!

But if one will but look for enjoyment, how much there is in every change of weather. The formation of clouds, the various signs and signals, the uncertain wheeling and marching of the fleecy cohorts, the shades of light and gray in the broken heavens, — all have their pleasure to an observant eye. Then come the wind gust, the distant, dark cloud, the occa sional fiery streak shot down through it, the run and hurry of men whose work may suffer!

Indeed, sir, your humble servant, even, was stirred up on