In imaged thought I seem to see once more,
Around its homely porch and narrow walk,
The sturdy youth in rustic frock;
And decked in quaintest fashion, as of yore
Are grouped the maidens round the outer door;
I hear the ancient people talk.

Their uncouth dialect and gestured speech
Betray the lusty blood of Fatherland.

A stern and pious little band,
Their simple parson leads to pray and preach.
They know by heart the lesson he will teach,
And crave a blessing from his hand.

Alas! the voices which I seem to hear
Are dreamy echoes of the silent ones;
I read the churchyard's dingy stones,
The very names sound agéd to the ear,
And half the rude memorials disappear

Where'er the sere gray lichen runs.

:

Scarce distant from these ancient graves, I turn
And trace the In Memoriam, by the dust
Of one whose pure disdain of lust,
Whose famed yet gentle life no marble urn
Nor bronze recites; but only hedge and fern
Are wreathed about a nation's trust..

The love a selfish world unselfish bears
Is better left to memory alone;
No need of praise on mocking stone
Where every passing eye in wonder stares;

Or, richly blazoned in the city squares,
Forsooth to claim what men disown.

Ah! not the boasting shaft enshrines the man.
Time has no hour in which to knell the fame

Upborne by an immortal claim.
For it a bridge ethereal shall span
The ages; nor the wisest critic's ban,
Nor aught despoil the deathless name.

S. H. Thayer.

Ticonderoga, N. Y.

TICONDEROGA.

THE cold, gray light of the dawning

On old Carillon falls,

And dim in the mist of the morning
Stand the grim old fortress walls.
No sound disturbs the stillness
Save the cataract's mellow roar,
Silent as death is the fortress,
Silent the misty shore.

But up from the wakening waters
Comes the cool, fresh morning breeze,
Lifting the banner of Britain,

And whispering to the trees
Of the swift gliding boats on the waters
That are nearing the fog-shrouded land,

With the old Green Mountain Lion,
And his daring patriot band.

But the sentinel at the postern

Heard not the whisper low;

He is dreaming of the banks of the Shannon As he walks on his beat to and fro,

Of the starry eyes in Green Erin

That were dim when he marched away, And a tear down his bronzed cheek courses, 'Tis the first for many a day.

A sound breaks the misty stillness,
And quickly he glances around;
Through the mist, forms like towering giants
Seem rising out of the ground;
A challenge, the firelock flashes,
A sword cleaves the quivering air,
And the sentry lies dead by the postern,
Blood staining his bright yellow hair.

Then with a shout that awakens

All the echoes of hillside and glen,
Through the low, frowning gate of the fortress,
Sword in hand, rush the Green Mountain men.
The scarce wakened troops of the garrison
Yield up their trust pale with fear;
And down comes the bright British banner,
And out rings a Green Mountain cheer.

Flushed with pride, the whole eastern heavens
With crimson and gold are ablaze;

And up springs the sun in his splendor
And flings down his arrowy rays,
Bathing in sunlight the fortress,
Turning to gold the grim walls,
While louder and clearer and higher
Rings the song of the waterfalls.

Since the taking of Ticonderoga
A century has rolled away;
But with pride the nation remembers
That glorious morning in May.
And the cataracts' silvery music
Forever the story tells,
Of the capture of old Carillon,
The chime of the silver bells.1

V. B. Wilson

Trappe, The, Pa.

THE OLD CHURCH.

N the heat of

IN

a day in September

We came to the old church door,

We bared our heads, I remember,

On the step that the moss covered o'er. There the vines climbed over and under, And we trod with a reverent wonder

Through the dust of the years on the floor.

From the dampness and darkness and stillness
No resonant chantings outrolled,
And the air with its vaporous chillness
Covered altar and column with mould.
For the pulpit had lost its old glory,
And its greatness become but a story,
By the aged still lovingly told.

O'er the graves 'neath the long waving grasses
In summer the winds lightly blow,

And the phantoms come forth from the masses
Of deep tangled ivy that grow.
Through the aisles at midnight they wander,
At noon of the loft they are fonder,

Unhindered they come and they go.

And it seemed that a breath of a spirit,
Like a zephyr at cool of the day,
Passed o'er us and then we could hear it

In the loft through the organ-pipes play.
All the aisles and the chancel seemed haunted,
And weird anthems by voices were chanted
Where dismantled the organ's pipes lay.

Came the warrior who robed as a Colonel
Led his men to the fight from the prayer,
And the pastor who tells in his journal
What he saw in the sunlight's bright glare,
How a band of wild troopers danced under
While the organ was pealing its thunder
In gay tunes on the sanctified air.