THE LEGION OF HONOR. BY H. L. FLASH. Why are we forever speaking Of the warriors of old? Men are fighting all around us, Full as noble, full as bold. Ever working, ever striving, Mind and muscle, heart and soul, With the reins of judgment keeping Passions under full control. Noble hearts are beating boldly As they ever did on earth; Swordless heroes are around us, Striving ever from their birth. Tearing down the old abuses, Building up the purer laws, Scattering the dust of ages, Searching out the hidden flaws. Acknowledging no "right divine" In kings and princes from the rest; In their creed he is the noblest Who has worked and striven best. Decorations do not tempt them-- Diamond stars they laugh to scorn-- Each will wear a "Cross of Honor" On the Resurrection morn. Warriors they in fields of wisdom-- Like the noble Hebrew youth, Striking down Goliath's error With the God-blessed stone of truth. Marshaled 'neath the Right's broad banner, Forward rush these volunteers, Beating olden wrong away From the fast advancing years. Contemporaries do not see them, But the _coming_ times will say (Speaking of the slandered present), "There _were_ heroes in that day." Why are we then idly lying On the roses of our life, While the noble-hearted struggle In the world redeeming strife. Let us rise and join the legion, Ever foremost in the fray-- Battling in the name of Progress For the nobler, purer day. "WHAT THE VILLAGE BELL SAID." BY JOHN M'LEMORE, OF S. C. Full many a year in the village church, Above the world have I made my home; And happier there, than if I had hung High up in air in a golden dome; For I have tolled When the slow hearse rolled Its burden sad to my door; And each echo that woke, With the solemn stroke, Was a sigh from the heart of the poor. I know the great bell of the city spire Is a far prouder one than such as I; And its deafening stroke, compared with mine, Is thunder compared with a sigh; But the shattering note Of his brazen throat, As it swells on the Sabbath air, Far oftener rings For other things Than a call to the house of prayer. Brave boy, I tolled when your father died, And you wept when my tones pealed loud; And more gently I rung when the lily-white dame Your mother dear lay in her shroud: And I rang in sweet tone The angels might own, When your sister you gave to your friend; Oh! I rang with delight, On that sweet summer night, When they vowed they would love to the end!