Monks may nurse their mouldy moods
          Caged in musty solitudes;
          Men beneath the breezy sky
          March to conquer or to die!

          Work and live—­this only charm
          Warms the blood and nerves the arm,
          As the stout pine stronger grows
          By each gusty blast that blows.

          On high throne or lonely sod,
          Fellow-workers we with God;
          Then most like to Him when we
          March through toil to victory.

          If there be who sob and sigh. 
          Let them sleep or let them die;
          While we live we strain and strive,
          Working most when most alive!

          Where the fairest blossom grew,
          There the spade had most to do;
          Hearts that bravely serve the Lord,
          Like St. Paul, must wear the sword!

          Onward, brothers, onward go! 
          Face to face to find the foe! 
          Words are weak, and wishing fails,
          But the well-aimed blow prevails!

AT THE BURIAL OF A VETERAN.

“Hodie tibi, cras mihii.”

BY ALFRED H. MILES.

        Yours to-day and ours to-morrow,
          Hither, comrade, hence to go;
        Yours the joy and ours the sorrow,
          Yours the weal and ours the woe.

        What the profit of the stronger? 
          Life is loss and death is gain;
        Though we live a little longer,
          Longer life is longer pain.

        Which the better for the weary—­
          Longer travel?  Longer rest? 
        Death is peace, and life is dreary: 
          He must die who would be blest.

        You have passed across the borders,
          Death has led you safely home;
        We are standing, waiting orders,
          Ready for the word to come.

        Empty-handed, empty-hearted,
          All we love have gone before,
        And since they have all departed,
          We are loveless evermore.

        Yours to-day and ours to-morrow,
          Hither, comrade, hence to go;
        Yours the joy and ours the sorrow,
          Yours the weal and ours the woe.

NAPOLEON AND THE BRITISH SAILOR.

BY THOMAS CAMPBELL.

I love contemplating—­apart
From all his homicidal glory—­
The traits that soften to our heart

    Napoleon’s story.

’Twas when his banners at Boulogne,
Armed in our island every freeman,
His navy chanced to capture one

    Poor British seaman.

They suffered him,—­I know not how,
Unprisoned on the shore to roam;
And aye was bent his longing brow

    On England’s home.