TO THE KING.

  A Health to the King—­my king! 
  But not in the ruby wine,
  Too pale for the name I sing;
  Too weak for such love as mine!

  How shall I pledge thee, my king? 
  What nectar shall fill the bowl? 
  Hope herself can not bring
  A wine—­like that in my soul!

  Then take for a pledge, my king! 
  A life—­it is wholly thine;
  And quaff from the cup, O king! 
  A soul—­not the ruby wine!

Happy the gentleman who is crowned king with the garland of song and consecrated with the wine of life and of love.

* * * * *

THE PICKET GUARD.

BY J.L.  RAND.

  The sentinel sounds the dread note that alarms,
  Each man springs up from his sleep to arms! 
        There’s an onward dash
        And a sudden flash;
        There’s a sigh and a groan,
        And the quick feet have flown—­
        A picket is dying alone. 
  For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
        And who can stop to reckon?

  The newspaper tells what the President thought,
  What Stanton did or Seward taught,
        In columns long,
        With capitals strong;
        And the paper is filled
        As the editor willed: 
      ‘SLIGHT SKIRMISH!—­one man killed.’ 
  But men must fight for the sleeping Right,
        And who can stop to reckon?

  A wife sits sad in her fireside chair,
  And thinks of the husband so brave to dare,
        And dreams once more
        That the war is o’er;
        While the South-birds trill
        Near the picket-camp still,
        And the picket lies dead on the hill. 
  For men must fight for the sleeping Right,
        And God stands by to reckon.

But the account is kept in eternity—­there are none lost, no, not one—­and the time will come when all shall be found and known who were brave in this world’s battles.

* * * * *

We gladly find a corner for the following, by one known to us of old, as no indifferent poet: 

EMANCIPATION.

All oupos ama panta Theoi dosan anthropoisin.—­Iliad.

  Lift up your faces to the golden dawn
  That ushers in your year of Jubilee,
  Ye who to unrequited toil have gone
  In this great land, in this proud century. 
  The clock of time has beat its seconds slow,
  But lo the hour of your release has come;
  Ay, strikes, and thrills the world with every blow
  That rings Oppression out, and Freedom home.

  Not, not in vain, ‘How long, O Lord:  how long?’
    Have ye inquired of Him who knew your needs;
  For those who prospered by your ancient wrong,
    Invoked the vengeance that upon their heads
  Is raining ruin.  Lo! the Lord is just: 
    Through the Red Sea of War ye, ye alone
  Come up unharmed; while all the oppressor’s host
    In their mid-passage shall be overthrown.