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THE LINCOLN CIRCUIT
In Springfield, where his ashes lie,
The little towns, the county seats,
E. O. LAUGHLIN.
From the Ladies' Home Journal.
THE HYMN OF ARMAGEDDON
. Have they not seen the writing that flames upon the wall
, Of how the house is built of sand, and how their pride must fall? The cough of little lads that sweat where never sun/sheds light, The sob of starving children, and their mothers in the night, Who stand at Armageddon and who battle for the Lord ! God's soldiers from the West are we, from North, and East and South, The seed of them who flung the tea into the harbor's mouth, And those who fought where Grant fought and those who fought with Lee, And those who under alien stars first dreamed of liberty. Not those of little faith whose speech is soft, whose ways are dark, Nor those upon whose forehead the Beast has set his mark. Out of the hand of justice we snatch her faltering sword; We stand at Armageddon and we baltle for the Lord ! The sternest militant of God whose trumpet in the fray Has cleft the city into three shall lead us on this day. The holy strength that David had in his, the faith that saves, For he shall free the toilers as Abe Lincoln freed the slaves. And he shall rouse the lukewarm and those whose eyes are dim, The hope of twenty centuries has found a voice in him. Because the Beast shall froth with wrath and perish by his sword. He leads at Armageddon the legions of the Lord ! For he shall move the mountains that groan with ancient sham, And mete with equal measure to the lion and the lamb. And he shall wipe away the tears that burn on woman's cheek, For in the nation's council, hence the mothers, too, shall speak. Through him the rose of peace shall blow from the red rose of strife, America shall write his name into the Book of Life. And when at Armageddon we battle with the sword Shall fise the mystic commonwealth, the City of the Lord.
GEORGE SYLVESTER VIERECK. From Current Literature, 1912.
He held the faith; the path he trod
EDWARD PARKER Davis.
From Literary Digest.
LAMENT OF THE PLAYERS
Our friend has gone the one who sat in front
And smiled at us, and gave us heart of cheer The while his own great heart bore full the brunt
Of all the torment of each passing year.
We see him now, his face, so troubled, stern,
All marked with cares that pierce the souls of men, And then a wit, a singer or a fool would turn
The storm to smiles, the man to boy again.
Through all the years when war so took its toll
That strength was sapped, the sharp eyes weary grew,
Ideals unaccomplished—these he knew.
And hallowed be the place where once he sat.
Thank God for that! ROLAND BURKE HENNESSY.
On S Street to the rendezvous
The darkened house they came at last:
The lipless bugler shrilled a blast;
Startled the shadows with its flame,
The spiteful will slander, the timid will clamor,
One man who was faithful whatever assailed us,
When others could falter, faint-hearted and hollow,
From New York Evening Mail, 1912.
TO ROBERT BROWNING
To tell the truth about you, Robert Browning,
From Boston Transcript, 1912.