66 If you your firing will withhold Into your hands, on promise sure The Austrian herald bowed assent; At dawn the Austrian rank and file To see their brave foes pass. Slow the rusty hinges turn; Slow the massive gates unfold; "Your name, your name?" the Austrians cry. Cheer on cheer Burst from every Austrian heart; Down the glen, The ringing echoes start. While the Colonel, bowing low, Said in accents grave: "I salute my gallant foe, The bravest of the brave!" -Good Cheer. THE ETERNITY OF MUSIC.-ARCHBISHOP RYAN. Who was it, when he formed this Temple of Creation, that first introduced into it sculpture, painting, poetry, music, those marvelous missionaries of the beautiful, that, like the angels in the vision of sleeping Israel, bring earth and heaven into sweet union? Who was the first sculptor that struck with his chisel the marble rocks, and fashioned them as He would? Who was the first painter that touched with his brush the flowers of the valley and tinged with deep azure the ocean.-that mystic baptismal font in whose waters He purified the universe, and decreed that by its waters and His spirit man should become regenerate? Who was the first decorator that studded with gems the Milky Way and spread this arch of splendor across the concave of this, His temple? Who first told the strong sons of God to "shout with joy," and bade "the morning star sing together," when all creation was ringing with the notes of Him, the first composer; when earth and air and heaven celebrated His praises— until the intruder Sin broke the universal chorus, jarred against nature's chime, and tore the harp strings of His angels; and who, by conquering sin and death, brings back the lost melody? Who has sanctified this art of music, not to oppress the intellect, not to cloud it, not to silence it, not to lull it into a sleep fatal to its powers? No, but to beautify, to elevate and to influence even the intellect itself, by purifying the imagination and the heart. He it was who, having inspired this glorious art, declared that music should become in heaven itself eternal; that when all the others should, as it were, faint at the gates of heaven; when the chisel should fall from the sculptor's hand on seeing the magnificent ideals that he thought to represent; when the painter should cast away the brush in view of the glorious coloring beyond the stars; when the poet should breathe no more the song of hope, but should enjoy eternal fruition; when the architect need no more to build a house with hands in view of the eternal temple of Almighty God; when the sacred mission of all the other arts shall have been fulfilled, that then glorious music shall survive them all, and, flying in, as it were, through the gates of light, give her lessons to the angels, and the architect and the sculptor and the painter and the poet should all become for eternity the children of song. SO WAS I.-JOSEPH BERT SMILEY.* By permission of the Author. My name is Tommy, an' I hates One time he came,-down by the gate, They didn't see me, 'cause I slid I didn't hear just all they said, But by an' by my sister's head *Author of "Presto Changa ""A Chinese Version of 'Maud Muller,'" &c., in No. 30, of this Series. Was droopin' on his shoulder, an' An' then that feller looked around I runned the very best I could But he cotched up,-I's 'fraid he would, An' then he went back to the gate "I fear I cannot please," he said; Are those my mother used to sing "Sing one of those," a rough voice cried, To every mother's son of us A mother's songs are dear." Then sweetly rose the singer's voice "Am I a soldier of the cross, A follower of the Lamb? "And shall I fear to own His cause The very stream was stilled, And hearts that never throbbed with fear, Ended the song; the singer said, As to his feet he rose, "Thanks to you all, my friends; good night; God grant us sweet repose." "Sing us one more," the captain begged; The soldier bent his head, Then glancing round, with smiling lips, 'You'll join with me," he said. "We'll sing this old familiar air, Sweet as the bugle call, 'All hail the power of Jesus' name, Let angels prostrate fall. " Ah! wondrous was the old tune's spell As on the singer sang; Man after man fell into line, And loud the voices rang. The songs are done, the camp is still, And up from many a bearded lip, |