POETRY.

Tans is the night of a Star. Dusk grow window and wall; A Cross unseen floats red o'er the wreck of war; Silences fall In the house where the wounded are. " Good-night to all! "

Then I pause awhile by the open door, and see Their patient faces, pale through the blue smoke-rings.

On-the night of Epiphany.. . .

But who are these, who are changt-d utterly, Wearing a look of Kings?

Brothers, whence do ye come?

Royal and still, what Star have ye looked upon P —" From hill and valley, from many a city home We came, we endured till the last of strength was gone, Over the narrow sea.

But what of a Star? We have only fought for home And babes on the mother's knee."

(Their silence math.) —Brothers, what do ye bring To the Christ Whom Kings adored ? "—" We cannot tell.

We might have fashioned once some simple thing; Once we were swift, who now are very slow; We were skilled of hand, who bear the splint and the sling.

We gave no thought to Pain, in the year ago, Who since have passed through Hell.

But what should we bring Him now—we, derelicts nigh past mending? "

(Frankincense, myrrh and gold; Winds His choristers, worlds about His knee. . „ Hath He room at all in His awful Treasury For the gifts our Kings unfold That can ne'er be told?) This is the night of a Star.

This is the long road's ending.

They are sleeping now; they have brought their warrior best To the Lord their God Who made them; And lo ! He bath repaid them

With rest.—

This is the night of a Star.

The laugh that rings through torment, the ready jest, Valour and youth, lost hope, and a myriad dreams

Splendidly given—

He hath taken up to the inmost heart of Heaven.

And now—while the night grows cold, and the ward-fire

gleams—

You may guess the tender Smile as He walketh hidden In the place where His Wise Ones are.

MART ADAIR-MACDONALD.