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Ye all at once would answer,

They called him Mehrab Khan.
He sleeps among his fathers,

Dear to our native land,
With the bright mark he bled for

Firm round his faithful hand.
“ The songs they sing of Roostrum

Fill all the past with light; If truth be in their music,

He was a noble knight. Rut were those heroes living,

And strong for battle still, Would Mehrab Khan or Roostrum

Have climbed, like these, the Hill ?” And they replied, “Though Mehrab Khan was brave

As chief, he chose himself what risks to run; Prince Roostrum lied, his forfeit life to save,

Which these had never done." “Enough!” he shouted fiercely;

“Doomed though they be to hell, Bind fast the crimson trophy

Round both wrists—bind it well. Who knows but that great Allah

May grudge such matchless men, With none so decked in heaven,

To the fiends' flaming den ?”
Then all those gallant robbers

Shouted a stern Amen!”
They raised the slaughtered sergeant,

They raised his mangled ten.
And when we found their bodies

Left bleaching in the wind, Around both wrists in glory

That crimson thread was twined. Then Napier's knightly heart, touched to the core,

Rung like an echo, to that knightly deed ; He bade its memory live for evermore,

That those who run may read.

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The Singers. God sent his Singers upon earth With songs of sadness and of mirth, That they might touch the hearts of men, And bring them back to heaven again. The first, a youth, with soul of fire, Held in his hand a golden lyre; Through groves he wandered, and by streams, Playing the music of our dreams. The second, with a bearded face, Stood singing in the market-place, And stirred with accents deep and loud The hearts of all the listening crowd. A grey old man, the third and last, Sang in cathedrals dim and vast, While the majestic organ rolled Contrition from its mouths of gold. And those who heard the Singers three, Disputed which the best might be; For still their music seemed to start Discordant echoes in each heart. But the great Master said, “I see No best in kind, but in degree; I gave a various gift to each, To charm, to strengthen, and to teach. “ These are the three great chords of might, And he whose ear is tuned aright Will hear no discord in the three, But the most perfect harmony."

Above and Below.

I.

O dwellers in the valley-land,

Who in deep twilight grope and cower, Till the slow mountain's dial-hand

Shortens to noon's triumphal hour,

While ye sit idle, do ye think

The Lord's great work sits idle too ? That light dare not o'erleap the brink

Of morn, because 'tis dark with you? Though yet your valleys skulk in night,

In God's ripe fields the day is cried, And reapers, with their sickles bright,

Troop, singing, down the mountain-side : Come up and feel what health there is

In the frank Dawn's delighted eyes, As bending with a pitying kiss,

The night-shed tears of earth she dries !
The Lord wants reapers : Oh, mount up,
Before Night comes,

and
says,

- Too late!” Stay not for taking scrip or cup,

The Master hungers while ye wait; 'Tis from these heights alone, your eyes

The advancing spears of dny can see, That o'er the eastern hill-tops rise,

To break your long captivity.

II.
Lone watcher on the mountain height,

It is right precious to behold
The first long surf of climbing light

Flood all the thirsty east with gold ;
Bui we, who in the shadow sit,

Know also when the day is nigh,
Seeing thy shining forehead lit

With His inspiring prophecy.
Thou hast thine office; we have ours;

God lacks not early service here,
But what are thine eleventh hours

He counts with us for morning cheer; Our day, for Him, is long enough,

And when He giveth work to do, The bruised reed is amply tough

To pierce the shield of error through.

But not the less do thou aspire

Light's earlier messages to preach; Keep back no syllable of fire,

Plunge deep the rowels of thy speech. Yet God deems not thine aeried sight.

More worthy than our twilight dim; For meek Obedience, too, is Light,

And following that is finding Him.

A Song for Stout Workers.
Onward, brave men, onward go,
Place is none for rest below;
He who laggeth faints and fails,
He who presses on prevails !
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 lowly 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 !

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

David Livingstone. Droop, half

mast colours ! bow, bare-headed crowds ! As this plain coffin o'er the side is slung, To pass by woods of masts and ratlined shrouds,

As erst by Afric's trunks liana-hung. 'Tis the last mile, of many thousands trod With failing strength, but never

failing will, By the worn frame, now at its rest with God,

That never rested from its fight with ill. Or if the ache of travel and of toil

Would sometimes wring a short sharp cry of pain, From

agony of fever, blain, and boil, "Twas but to crush it down, and on again! He knew not that the trumpet he had blown,

Out of the darkness of that dismal land, Had reached, and roused an army of its own,

To strike the chains from the Slave's fettered hand. Now, we believe, he knows, sees all is well :

How God had stayed his will, and shaped his way, To bring the light to those that darkling dwell,

With gains that life's devotion well repay. Open the Abbey doors, and bear him in

To sleep with king and statesman, chief, and sage, The Missionary, come of weaver-kin,

But great by work that brooks no lower wage. He needs no epitaph to guard a name

Which men shall prize while worthy work is known; He lived and died for good—be that his fame :

Let marble crumble : this is. Living-stone.

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