Thine are all the gifts, O God! Thine the broken bread; Let the naked feet be shod, And the starving fed. Let Thy children, by Thy grace,

ROBERT RAWLIN!—Frosts were f… When the ranger’s horn was calling Through the woods to Canada. Gone the winter’s sleet and snowin… Gone the spring-time’s bud and blo…

Bland as the morning breath of Ju… The southwest breezes play; And, through its haze, the winter… Seems warm as summer’s day. The snow-plumed Angel of the Nort…

To kneel before some saintly shrin… To breathe the health of airs divi… Or bathe where sacred rivers flow, The cowled and turbaned pilgrims g… I too, a palmer, take, as they

FOR DOROTHEA L. DIX. Stranger and traveller, Drink freely and bestow A kindly thought on her Who bade this fountain flow,

Climbing a path which leads back n… We heard behind his footsteps and… Now, face to face, we greet him st… Upon the lonely summit of Foursco… Welcome to us, o’er whom the lengt…

Andrew Rykman’s dead and gone; You can see his leaning slate In the graveyard, and thereon Read his name and date. Trust is truer than our fears

Its windows flashing to the sky, Beneath a thousand roofs of brown, Far down the vale, my friend and… Beheld the old and quiet town; The ghostly sails that out at sea

For Dr Henry L Bowditch With warning hand I mark Time’s r… flight From life’s glad morning to it’s s… night;

The time of gifts has come again, And, on my northern window-pane, Outlined against the day’s brief l… A Christmas token hangs in sight. The wayside travellers, as they pa…

So, this is all,—the utmost reach Of priestly power the mind to fett… When laymen think, when women prea… A war of words, a ‘Pastoral Lette… Now, shame upon ye, parish Popes!

Ere down yon blue Carpathian hill… The sun shall sink again, Farewell to life and all its ills, Farewell to cell and chain! These prison shades are dark and c…

His laurels fresh from song and la… Romance, art, science, rich in all… And young of heart, how dare we sa… We keep his seventieth festival? No sense is here of loss or lack;

1775. No Berserk thirst of blood had th… No battle-joy was theirs, who set Against the alien bayonet Their homespun breasts in that old…

Is this the land our fathers loved… The freedom which they toiled to w… Is this the soil whereon they move… Are these the graves they slumber… Are we the sons by whom are borne