The strife endures how long! how long! Life, death, seem balanced in the scale; While round his bed a viewless throng Awaits each morrow's changing tale. In realms the desert ocean parts, What myriads watch with tear filled eyes, His pulse beats echoing in their hearts, His breathings counted with their sighs! Slowly the stories of life are spent, Yet hope still battles with despair,-- Will heaven not yield when knees are bent? Answer, O Thou that hearest prayer! But silent is the brazen sky,-- On sweeps the meteor's threatening train,-- Unswerving Nature's mute reply Bound in her adamantine chain. Not ours the verdict to decide Whom death shall claim or skill shall save: The hero's life though Heaven denied, It gave our land a martyr's grave. Nor count the teaching vainly sent How human hearts their griefs may share,-- The lesson woman's love has lent What hope may do, what faith can bear! Farewell! the leaf-strewn earth enfolds Our stay, our pride, our hopes, our fears, And autumn's golden sun beholds A nation bowed, a world in tears. _Boston Globe._ SONNET--JAMES A. GARFIELD. BY REV. H. BERNARD CARPENTER Lo! as a pure white statue wrought with care By some strong hand, which moulds from Life and Death Beauty more beautiful than blood or breath, And straight 'tis veiled, and, whilst all men repair To see this wonder in the workshops there! Behold it gleams unveiled to curious eye Far-seen, high-placed in Art's pale gallery, Where all stand mute before a work so fair: So he, our man of men, in vision stands, With Pain and Patience crowned imperial, Death's veil has dropped, far from this house of woe He hears one love chant out of many lands, Whilst from his mystic noon-height he lets fall His shadow o'er these hearts that bleed below. SEPT. 26, 1881. _The Independent._ MIDNIGHT. SEPTEMBER 19, 1881. BY JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. Once in a lifetime we may see the veil Tremble and lift, that hides symbolic things: The spirit's vision, when the senses fail, Sweeps the weird meaning that the outlook brings. Deep in the midst of turmoil it may be,-- A crowded street, a forum, or a field,-- The soul inverts the telescope, to see To-day's event in future years revealed. Back from the present, let us look at Rome; Now see what Cato meant, what Brutus said. Hark! the Athenians welcome Cimon home! How clear they are, those glimpses of the dead! But we hard toilers, we who plan and weave Through common days the web of common life, What word, alas! shall teach us to receive The mystic meaning of our peace and strife?