After the burial-parties leave
And the baffled kites have fled;
The wise hyaenas come out at eve
To take account of our dead.

How he died and why he died
Troubles them not a whit.
They snout the bushes and stones aside
And dig till they come to it.

They are only resolute they shall eat
That they and their mates may thrive,
And they know that the dead are safer meat
Than the weakest thing alive.

(For a goat may butt, and a worm may sting,
And a child will sometimes stand;
But a poor dead soldier of the King

After ten days I come here again,
climbing, gazing — even more peaceful than before.
The old monks boil lichens for me,
sit with their guest on the mountain top.
From a dark cave — clouds and fog arise.
On a sunny slope — cows and horses graze.
I sigh — I left the city too late
and missed the chrysanthemums this autumn.

After surmounting three-score and ten,
With all their chances, changes, losses, sorrows,
My parents' deaths, the vagaries of my life, the many tearing passions of me, the war of '63 and '64,
As some old broken soldier, after a long, hot, wearying march, or haply after battle,
To-day at twilight, hobbling, answering company roll-call, Here , with vital voice,
Reporting yet, saluting yet the Officer over all.

The Humble Petition of the POETS.

A F ter so many Concurring Petitions
From all Ages and Sexes, and all Conditions,
We come in the rear to present our Follies
To Pym, Stroude, Haslerig, H. and H.
Though set Form of Prayer be an Abomination ,
Set forms of Petitions find great Approbation:
Therefore, as others from th' bottom of their Souls,
So we from the depth and bottom of our Bowls ,
According unto the blessed form you have taught us,
We thank you first for the Ills you have brought us:

Lady, those cherries plenty,
Which grow on your lips dainty,
Ere long will fade and languish.
Then now, while yet they last them,
O let me pull and taste them.

Afraid? Of whom am I afraid?
Not death; for who is he?
The porter of my father's lodge
As much abasheth me.

Of life? 'T were odd I fear a thing
That comprehendeth me
In one or more existences
At Deity's decree.

Of resurrection? Is the east
Afraid to trust the morn
With her fastidious forehead?
As soon impeach my crown!

Affliction is a stormy deep,
Where wave resounds to wave:
Though o'er my head the billows roll
I know the Lord can save.

The hand that now withholds my joys
Can soon restore my peace;
And He who bade the tempest rise
Can bid that tempest cease.

Here will I rest, and build my hope,
Nor murmur at His rod;
He's more than all the world to me —
My Health, my Life, my God!

IN ITS COURSE BY ST. ENOCH'S, ROSEHALL, ETC .

Lone C ALDER ! sweet Calder! beloved of my youth,
When Nature I worshipped with fervour and truth;
Sweet memories float like a beautiful dream
O'er thy musical woodlands and murmuring stream.

'Tis fifty long years since, and now as I range
Thy flower-spangled margin, alas, for the change!
My youthful companions, ah! where have ye fled?
Sweet, sad voices whisper—They sleep with the dead.

Bright, golden-haired Bella, dear, delicate Anne,
And warm-hearted Jessie, how swiftly ye ran

The advantages of living with two cultures
Strike one at every turn,
Especially when one finds a notice in an office building:
" This elevator will not run on Ascension Day;"

Or reads in the Montreal Star:
" Tomorrow being the feast of the Immaculate Conception,
There will be no collection of garbage in the city";
Or sees on the restaurant menu the bilingual dish:

DEEP APPLE PIE

TARTE AUX POMMES PROFONDES

Admiral , Admiral, sailing home —
Sailing home through the far, dim seas,
Know you the sound that over the foam
Rises and sinks in the sunset breeze?

Know you the thrill and know you the start
That pulses and runs through the wind and the spray,
Pulses and runs from a nation's heart
To meet you and greet you over the way?

Not for the might of your guns alone,
Thundering doom by the Eastern gate;
Not for the bugle of victory blown, —
Not for these do we watch and wait!

The glory is sweet — ay, sweet to the soul