POETRY.

HONOUR, NOT HONOURS.*

(And so you do not yet attain, Your brows are not yet crowned. There is a summit still to gain Before success is found P Yet should you all indeed Have failed that wont Moro— Be comforted ; if to succeed

Be much, to strive is more.)—n. J.

DENSER and mightier hour by hour

Swells the throng upon life's highway; Fiercer the straggle for place and power, Till the giants of old were as babes to-day, And the heart of the novice with chill dismay Grows faint at the sight of the hopeless race ; For how shall he soar, if there be not space For the strong swift beat of his wings to play ?

True, there may be many that throng the start, And eagerly jostle a place to win ; But only the patient and stout of heart Go on as bravely as they begin.

And the ranks of the runners are straggling thin When the road grows steep and the pathway rough ; And each will find there is room enough, As he nears the goal where the race comes in.

Yet not to all is the lot assigned To win the laurel and wear the crown ; For Fate is fickle and Fortune blind, And sheds unseeing her smile or frown. And the foremost runner is smitten down, When the bay-clad-summit is well-nigh scaled ; What then ! Of a truth to have striven and failed Is a nobler thing than unearned renown!

For the deafening roar of the cheering crowd Falls sweet on vanity's eager ear, And the fool is flattered if praise be loud ; And discerns not the true from the insincere. But the still small voice that the wise holds dear, Is the voice that whispers within the breast,— " Thou bast fought thy battle and done thy best, When thy captain calls, thou hast nought to fear."

Then work while the blood in your veins runs strong, While limbs are supple, and hearts are light ; While life is summer, and days are long, Ere winter comes with its sunless night.

What tho' the deed that is done be slight— Feebly wrought and with lack of skill! Not the work itself, but the worker's will Availeth aught in the Master's sight.

False and hollow the voice of Fame, Fades the gilt on her glittering scroll; Nor hails she any with full acclaim, Till she hears the knell of his passing toll.

Then seek not a place on the heroes' roll ; But take for your guide, in the world's despite,

Not " What shall it profit ? " but " God and Right,"—

Honour, not " Honours," shall be your goal.

C. E. J.