"You are lovelier far than the proud skies are," He said, with a voice that sighed.

"You are fairer to me than the beautiful sea; Oh! why do you stay here and hide?

"You are wasting your life in this dull, dark room;"

And he fondled her silken folds.

"O'er the casement lean but a little, my queen, And see what the great world holds.

How the wonderful blue of your matchless hue Cheapens both sea and sky!

You are far too bright to be hidden from sight:
Come, fly with me, darling, fly!"

Tender his whisper, and sweet his caress;
Flattered and pleased was she:
The arms of her lover lifted her over

The casement out to sea.

Close to his breast she was fondly pressed,
Kissed once by his laughing mouth:

Then dropped to her grave in the cruel wave,
While the wind went whistling south.

Ella Wheeler Wilcox.

THE MANTLE OF ST. JOHN DE MATHA.

A STRONG and mighty Angel,

Calm, terrible, and bright,

The cross in blended red and blue

Upon his mantle white!

Two captives by him kneeling,

Each on his broken chain,

Sang praise to God who raiseth
The dead to life again!

Dropping his cross-wrought mantle, "Wear this," the Angel said; "Take thou, O Freedom's priest, its sign,The white, the blue, and red."

Then rose up John de Matha

In the strength the Lord Christ gave, And begged through all the land of France The ransom of the slave.

The gates of tower and castle
Before him open flew,

The drawbridge at his coming fell,

The door-bolt backward drew.

For all men owned his errand,
And paid his righteous tax;
And the hearts of lord and peasant
Were in his hands as wax.

At last, outbound from Tunis,
His bark her anchor weighed :
Freighted with seven-score Christian souls
Whose ransom he had paid.

But, torn by Paynim hatred,
Her sails in tatters hung;
And on the wild waves, rudderless,
A shattered hulk she swung.

"God save us !" cried the captain,
For naught can man avail;

Oh, woe betide the ship that lacks
Her rudder and her sail!

"Behind us are the Moormen;
At sea we sink or strand:
There's death upon the water,
There's death upon the land!"

Then up spake John de Matha:
"God's errands never fail!
Take thou the mantle which I wear,
And make of it a sail."

They raised the cross-wrought mantle,
The blue, the white, the red;
And straight before the wind off-shore
The ship of Freedom sped.

"God help us!" cried the seamen, "For vain is mortal skill: The good ship on a stormy sea Is drifting at its will."

Then up spake John de Matha :

"My mariners, never fear!

The Lord whose breath has filled her sail

May well our vessel steer!"

So on through storm and darkness

They drove for weary hours;

And lo! the third gray morning shone
On Ostia's friendly towers.

And on the walls the watchers
The ship of mercy knew,-
They knew far off its holy cross,
The red, the white, and blue.

And the bells in all the steeples
Rang out in glad accord,,

To welcome home to Christian soil

The ransomed of the Lord.

Whittier.

SLEEP.

"He giveth His beloved sleep.”—Ps. cxxvii. 2.

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,

For gift or grace, surpassing this,-
"He giveth His beloved sleep.”

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown to light the brows?—
He giveth His beloved sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth His beloved sleep.

"Sleep soft, beloved!" we sometimes say, Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep;
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth His beloved sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises !
O men with wailing in your voices!
O delvèd gold the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth His beloved sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap:
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,

He giveth His beloved sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard,
"He giveth His beloved sleep."