Where now is all his thundering? He has "fall'n on stillness" in the Spring, And even echo answers not, "In that dim land where all things are forgot," His surging sentences, his cadenced chimes Of speech that through the seven climes Wooed the many to rapt listening. Soothed by the wind of the dead men's feet, He lies in slumber senseless-sweet. His fame, his wife's and children's tears, The issue that made up his manly years, His hates and loves the burgeoning Earth receives, And list, "a little noiseless noise among the leaves" Of southern springtime pity does entreat. A fighter's faults were his, but strong The blows he struck at throned Wrong; Beauty he loved as ever love the brave; The April air breathes beauty o'er his grave. Truth he pursued. Lo, he has found her now: She kissed the kiss of peace upon his brow. His ears are filled with Silence's sweet song. Fighting he died, marched into the Night, His banner blazing with his bravery's light. "Shot from behind," the story goes, To glorify him and to damn his foes. The foes he fought were Cowardice and Fraud; They have prevailed again, but, O Lord God, Thou wilt raise up still others for Thy fight. Rejoicing loud is in the House of Sham, Bigots to themselves make deep salaam, Shoddydom rubs its ringed hands in glee, The Ogre's scandal-scourged at each pink tea, Pecksniff's pray that he has gone to swell The galaxy of bravery and brains in Hell-- Great joy in small souls all not worth a damn! But where men think, feel, as men can, "Bon voyage through the dark, good man!" They call and take up his pen-lance And brandish it again 'gainst Ignorance In power fortified with a myriad lies And every great-heart, fine-soul cries As pledge of fealty, "Here's to you, Brann!" What tho' he hear no rumor of our hail! What tho' we follow searching for that Grail A bettered world with less of woe and pain, And better gods than Privilege and Gain, Out in the darkness, by assassins sped, 'Tis better far to join defeated dead Than share success with him whose soul's for sale. --WILLIAM MARION REEDY, in St. Louis Mirror. * * * DEATH OF W. C. BRANN. What a sable pall was flung over the spirits of countless thousands who heard last week that Editor W. C. Brann, of the ICONOCLAST, was no more. "The heavens seem hung in black and the clouds are wrung of their stars," wrote a St. Paul friend who idolized the apostolic seer. The world is dark with excess of grief for the immortal soul of an illimitable genius has been sent to its maker and scattered with the star dust of the eidouranion William C. Brann was an apostle. Like Christ, like Lincoln and others whom we deify, he was misunderstood and reviled, and a cowardly bullet pierced him in the back, a martyrdom of which he had a premonition. The head and front of his offending was strict adherence to the truth, though the heavens fall. He knew no fear, but was never the aggressor.