■fETE count the broken lyres that rest' 
Where the sweet wailing singers slumber— 
But o’er their silent sisters’ breast 
• The wild-flowers who will stoop to number? 
A few can touch the magic string, 
And noisy fame is proud to win them;— 
Alas for those that never sing, 
But die- with all their music in them ! 
If singing breath or echoing chord 
To every hidden pang were given, 
What endless melodies were poured, 
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven ! 
O. IV. Habacs. 
•J^AUREL - pLORY, 
HE, bells to-day ring welcomes through the 
town, 
lowly down the sunny, crowded ways, 
Where country folk compare old holidays, 
1 bear these laurels for the victor’s crown. 
Strange—that for this men lay life gladly down, 
That from the cool 'growth of these unknown sprays, 
Their hands may grasp a weight of withering b.ays, 
Dead emblems of immortalized renown! 
A. M. I'. Robinson.- 
