CONTENT.
Sweet are the thoughts that savour of content
The quiet mind is richer than a crown:
Sweet are the nights in careless slumber spent:
The poor estate scorns Fortune's angry frown.
Such sweet content, such minds, such sleep, such bliss,
Beggars enjoy, when princes oft do miss.
-ROBERT GREENE.

VITAI LAMPADA. * 
There's a breathless hush in the close to-night - 
Ten to make, and the match to win
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play, and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat,
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his captain's hand on his shoulder smote,
" Play up ! play up ! and play the game !"
The sand of the desert is sodden red
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The gatling's jammed, and the colonel dead,
And the regiment blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far, and Honour a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
" Play up! play up! and play the game !"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And, falling, fling to the host behind - 
Play up ! play up ! and play the game !"
-HENRY NEWBOLT.

The phrase " Vitai lampada " means " [They hand on] the torch of life." The reference is to the Grecian 
torch-race, the art of which consisted in keeping the torch burning during the race, and handing it on, 
still lighted. The torch-race of the Greeks was therefore very similar to the relay race of our own times.
 
"CUDDLE DOON."
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht Wi' muckle faucht an' din. Oh ! try and sleep, ye waukrife* rogues, 
Your father's
comin' in."
They never heed a word I speak, I try to gie a froon;  
But aye I hap them up, an' cry, " Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon !"
Wee Jamie wi' the curly  heid -  He aye sleeps next the wa' - 
Bangs up and cries, " I want a piece The rascal starts them a'.
I rin and fetch them pieces, drinks - They stop a wee the soun'- .
Then draw the blankets up, and cry,  " Noo, weanies, cuddle doon ! "
But ere five minutes gang, wee Rab Cries oot, frae 'neath the claes, Mither, mak' Tam gie ower at 
ance: He's kittlin'
wi' his taes."
The mischief's in that Tam for tricks He'd bother half the toon.
But aye I hap them up, and cry, "Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon!"
At length they hear their father's fit§  An', as he steeks the door,
They turn their faces to the wa', While Tam pretends to snore. Ha'e a' the weans been gude I " he 
asks, As he pits aft
his shoon. The bairnies, John, are in their beds, An' lang since cuddled doon."

* Waukrife - Wakeful.  Fit--Foot.
 Hap--Cover. Steeks - Closes.
 Kittlin'-Tickling.

An' just before we bed oorsels,
We look at oor wee lambs.
Tam has his airm roun' wee Rab's neck,
And Rab his airm roun' Tam's.
I lift wee Jamie up the bed,
An', as I straik* each croon,
I whisper till my heart fills up,
" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon !"
The bairnies cuddle doon at nicht
Wi' mirth that's dear to me;
But sune the big warl's cark an' care
Will quaten doon their glee,
Yet, come what will to ilka ane,
May He who sits aboon
Aye whisper, though their pows§ he bald,
" Oh, bairnies, cuddle doon ! "
-ALEXANDER ANDERSON.

RECESSIONAL.
God of our fathers, known of old
Lord of our far-flung battle-line - Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget.
The tumult and the shouting dies
The captains and the kings depart - Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart. Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget.
Far-called our navies melt away
On dune and headland sinks the fire - Lo! all our pomp of yesterday
Is one with Nineveh and Tyre. Judge of the Nations, spare us yet, Lest we forget  - lest we forget.
If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe - Such boasting as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds, without the law - Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet, Lest we forget - lest we forget.
For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard - All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And, guarding, calls not Thee to guard - For frantic boast and foolish word, Thy mercy on Thy people, 
Lord! Amen.
-RUDYARD KIPLING.

THE GLORIOUS BRITISH EMPIRE.
Words and music by Theodore S. Tearne, Mus. Bac. Oxon., State Superintendent of Music, New South 
Wales.
The glorious British Empire lies Spread out from sea to sea; From North to South, from East to West, 
Her sons are brave and free. The flag that waves high o'er their heads, A symbol in its fold King and 
People's firm resolve That right they will uphold.
One language spoken by us all, One sense of justice free, One law for rich and poor alike, In which we 
all can share. So let us all united be, A strong fraternal band, And work for honour, justice, truth, In this 
our sunny land.
Should ever rival Nations try Our bulkwarks to destroy, Show one and all that British pluck Still lives 
in man and boy: Our fair Australia* to defend, Our King and Empire dear, United we will face the 
world, For Britons know no fear.

* Pupils should substitute "New Zealand."

THE PASSING OF KING EDWARD VII.
Toll in the proud cathedrals. He hath laid
Aside his sceptre, and the proudest crown
Of all the world from his pale brows put down;
As the spent warrior doffs his faithful blade
When, from the heat of war's tumultuous breath, Tired he leans to Death.
-	C. ALLAN MARRIS.

ABOU BEN ADHEM AND THE ANGEL.
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!) Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace, And saw 
within 
the moonlight in his room, Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An Angel writing in a book of gold : Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold, And to the Presence 
in 
the room he said, "What writest thou ? " The Vision raised its
head, And, with a look made of all sweet accord, Answered, " The names of those who love the Lord." 
"And is mine one " said Abou. " Nay, not so," Replied the Angel.
Abou spoke more low, But cheerly still, and said, " I pray thee, then, Write me as one that loves his 
fellow-men."
The Angel wrote and vanished. The next night It came again with a great wakening light, And showed 
the names whom love of God had blessed And, lo ! Ben Adhem's name
led all the rest.
-LEIGH HUNT.

GOD SAVE THE KING.
God save our gracious King! Long live our noble King! God save the King! Send him victorious, 
Happy 
and glorious, Long to reign over us; God save the King!
Thy choicest gifts in store On him be pleased to pour, Long may he reign ! May he defend our laws, 
And ever give us cause To sing with heart and voice, God save the King !

THE CALL.
There's the song of a storm on the old hill trails, And the lure of a vanished day;
There's the sound of the waves that are never still, As they roll on the open bay.
There's the white, still hush of the waiting woods, And the call of the deer at eve,
And the sough of the pines that forever tell Why the ancient oceans grieve.
There's the camp-fire's gleam on the dusky trees, There's a pipe and a bit of song,
While the stars above through the branches smile, And the big moon dreams along.
And here are the streets with their hordes of men That the gleam of the gold pursue.
Oh, give me the gold on the pines at dusk - My hills, how I long for you !
 -ARTHUR W. PEACH, in the "Munsey."

A GRAMMATICAL DISPUTE.
A brook and a little tree once went to school
To a bullfrog that lived in a puddle;
They tried to learn all of the grammar by rule,
Which left both of their heads in a muddle.
Of nouns and of pronouns they soon had enough
Prepositions they found most unbearable stuff;
While auxiliary verbs, they declared, were too tough
To be taught by a toad in a puddle.
"I may, can, or must, might-I could, would, or should, "
Cried the brook-" What nonsensical twaddle !" " Quite right," said the tree; " and I can't see the good
Of one's stuffing such things in one's noddle."
"And I vow," cried the brook, " I shall not learn a thing. "
"You mean will not, my dear, " said the tree, with a
 swing.  "I said shall not," retorted the brook, with a fling:
" Surely you do not pose as a model! "
"But will is correct," cried the tree, with a look;
" So is shall," cried the brook, with another.
"It is will," said the tree. "It is shall," said the  brook,
As they both turned their backs on each other.
Thus a quarrel arose 'twixt the brook and the tree, For neither one knew enough grammar to see That 
perhaps right or wrong 
both or either might be
In the usage of one or the other.
And the tree to the breeze still declares to this day,  " It is will, oh - 'tis will, oh - 'tis will, oh ! " While 
the brook 
to the sands where the little fish play  Murmurs, " Shall, oh - 'tis shall, oh - 'tis shall,
oh!"  For that tree is a willow wherever it grows, And that brook is a shallow wherever it flows While 
beneath each green 
willow, as every one knows,
Runs a little brook rippling shallow.
-JOHN BENNETT.

SIR JOHN FRANKLIN.
The Polar clouds uplift
A moment and no more
And through the snowy drift We see them on the shore
A band of gallant hearts,
Well-ordered, calm, and brave,
Braced for their closing parts
Their long march to the grave.
Through the snow's dazzling blink,
Into the dark they've gone:
No pause: the weaker sink,
The strong can but strive on,
Till all the dreary way
Is dotted with their dead,
And the shy foxes play
About each sleeping head.
Unharmed the wild deer run
To graze along the strand,
Nor dread the loaded gun
Beside each sleeping hand.
The remnant that survive
Onward like drunkards reel,
Scarce wotting* if alive,
But for the pangs they feel.

* Wotting - Knowing.

The river of their hope*
At length-is drawing nigh
Their snow-blind way they grope,
And reach its banks - to die!
Thank God, brave Franklin's place
Was empty in that band
He closed his well-run race
Not on the iron strand.
Not under snow-clouds white,
By cutting frost-wind driven,
Did his true Spirit fight
Its shuddering way to Heaven;
But warm, aboard his ship,
With comforts at his side
And hope upon his lip,
The gallant Franklin died.
His heart ne'er ached to see
His much-loved sailors ta'en;
His sailors' pangs were free
From their loved captain's pain.
But though in death apart,
They are together now:
Calm, each enduring heart;
Bright, each devoted brow!
-Punch.

* The Great Fish River, towards which they were making.

CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT.
[William the Conqueror ordered a bell to be rung in every town at sunset in summer and at eight 
o'clock in winter. At the sound of the bell all fires and lights had 
to be put out. This custom, though harsh and oppressive, was useful in
preventing fires among the crowded and ill-built wooden houses of the period. The custom of ringing 
the Curfew was continued long after it had lost its early significance.]
England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hills so far away,
Filling all the land  with  beauty at the close of one sad day;
And the last rays kissed the foreheads of a man and maiden fair,
He with footsteps slow and weary, she with sunny, floating hair ;
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful, she with lips so cold and white,
Struggling to keep back the murmur, " Curfew must not ring tonight ! "

Collins's " Graphic Reader."]

"Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the prison old,
With its walls so dark and gloomy - walls so dark and damp and cold
"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night to die
At the ringing of the Curfew, and no earthly help is nigh.
Cromwell will not come till sunset," and her face grew strangely white,
As she spoke in husky whispers, " Curfew must not ring to-night !"
"Bessie," calmly spoke the sexton - every word pierced her young heart
Like a thousand gleaming arrows, like a deadly poisoned dart
"Long, long years I've rung the Curfew from that gloomy shadowed tower ;
Every evening, just at sunset, it has told the twilight hour ;
I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and right,
Now I'm old I will not miss it ; girl, the Curfew rings to-night ! "
Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white her thoughtful brow,
As within her heaving bosom Bessie made a solemn vow;
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear or sigh,
"At the ringing of the Curfew Basil Underwood must die."
And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grow large and bright
One low murmur, scarcely spoken - " Curfew must not ring to-night! "
She with light step bounded forward, sprang within the old church door,
Left the old man treading slowly paths he'd trod so oft before ;
Not one moment paused the maiden, but with eye and cheek aglow
Mounted up the gloomy tower, where the bell swung to and fro ;
Then she climbed the slimy ladder, dark, without one ray of light,
Upward still, her pale lips saying, " Curfew shall not ring to-night! "
She has reached the topmost ladder, o'er her hangs the great dark bell,
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like a pathway down to hell ;
See, the ponderous tongue is swinging, 'tis the hour of Curfew now,
And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, and paled her brow.
Shall she let it ring ? No, never! flash her eyes with sudden light,
And she springs and grasps it firmly-" Curfew shall not ring to-night! "
Out she swung, far out - the city seemed a tiny speck below ;
Swung, twixt heaven and earth suspended, as the bell swayed to and fro:
Yet the deaf old sexton rang on (years he had not heard the bell),
And he thought the twilight Curfew rang young Basil's funeral knell ;
Still the maiden clung more firmly, and with trembling lips and white
Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating - " Curfew shall not ring to-night !"
It was o'er; the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden stepped once more
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where for long, long years before
Human foot had not been planted. And what she this night had done
Should be told long ages after - as the rays of setting sun
Light the sky with mellow beauty, aged sires with heads of white
Often tell the little children why no Curfew rang that night.
O'er the distant hills came Cromwell; Bessie sees him, and her brow,
Lately white with sickening terror, glows with sudden beauty now;
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all bruised and torn ;
And her face so sweet and pleading, yet with look so pale and worn,
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with misty light ;
"Go, your lover lives ! " said Cromwell, "Curfew shall
not ring to-night ! "  -ROSE HARTWICK THORPE.

THE BABY'S KISS.
AN INCIDENT OF THE AMERICAN CIVIL WAR.
Rough and ready the troopers ride, Pistol in holster and sword by side; They have ridden long, they 
have ridden hard They are travel-stained and battle-scarred. The hard ground
shakes with their martial tramp, And coarse is the laugh of the men of the camp.
They reach the spot where a mother stands With a baby waving its little hands, Laughing aloud at the 
gallant sight ,Of the mounted soldiers fresh from the fight. The captain cries
out, " I will give you this - A bright piece of gold - your baby to kiss."
"My darling's kisses cannot be sold, But gladly he'll kiss a soldier bold." He lifts up the babe 
with a manly grace, And covers with kisses its smiling face, Its rosy cheeks, and its
dimpled charms; And it crows with delight in the soldier's arms
"Not all for the captain," the troopers call; "The baby, we know, has a kiss for all." To each soldier's 
breast the baby is pressed By the strong, rough men, and kissed and
caressed; And louder it laughs, and the woman's face Wears a mother's smile at the fond embrace.
"Just such a kiss," cried one warrior grim, "When I left my boy, I gave to him." And just such a kiss, 
on the parting-day, I gave to my girl, as asleep she lay." Such were the
words of those soldiers brave, And their eyes were moist when the kiss they gave.
-G- R. EMERSON.
  
FOR MOTHER.
I chose a gift for mother - rich gold and rarest gem,
But the beauty in her kindly eyes looked down and humbled them;
And had they been God's golden stars close-woven in a crown,
They might have lost their lustre still when those dear eyes looked down.
I twined a wreath for mother - the best of summer flowers,
White lilies and white roses, the pride of garden bowers.
Their petals were no purer than her white hands pure and sweet,
And the flowers were only fitted as a pathway for her feet.
Then I wrote a song for mother - there was love in every line,
And never sang such music in any song of mine;
But the words were all unworthy, though the words were good and true,
So I left the song unfinished, and I tore the page in two.
And the richest I could fashion, and the fairest I could twine,
Was fit for no man's mother, and so much less fit for mine !
But I trust at last, in Heaven, God will wreathe her with His light,
And the angels sing the verses that will praise her worth aright.
-WILL H. OGILVIE.
 
THE FACE IN THE CATHEDRAL.
It was one of those grand cathedrals,
" A poem in wood and stone,"
Fashioned by master-builders
For the glory of God alone.
The sound of hammer and chisel
From morning till night was there,
As it rose in its Gothic grandeur,
A temple so vast and fair.
Workmen from every nation
With skill and craft had planned
Column and nave and chancel,
All wrought with cunning hand.
Strength was inlaid with beauty
A goodly sight to see
The rainbow light through the mullioned panes
Of that glorious sanctuary.
One day past the crowd of watchers
Came a man with silver hair,
And asked of the master-builder
For leave to labour there.
The workmen stood in wonder,
For the stranger's eyes were dim,
And the hands so thin and nerveless
Ne'er told of work in him.
The master smiled as he answered,
" Our men must be strong and true,
Able, as well as willing,
For the work they have to do
Your skill and your strength are over."
" Try me," the old man said,
Let me but work in the windowed niche
Of the turret above my head."
And the master in pity yielded
To the pleading of voice and eye.
The old man climbed the minster-stairs,
To the window aslant the sky ;
And there where the sunrise glory
Fell first through the diamond pane,
And pillar, and arch, and chancel
Were bathed in golden rain,
Day after day on the panel
He had won from the builder's grace,
His trembling hands were busy
Carving a single face;
Silent, and always keeping
From watchers and workers aloof,
There by the oriel window,
Under the fretted roof.
But once when the sun was setting,
And the minster's walls were dim,
The workmen waited and listened
What had befallen him ?
He stood not before the panel,
Nor came down the lofty stair;
Yet the light of the turret-window
Was shining upon him there,
For he lay in the quiet shadow
That follows the setting sun
His tired hands were folded
The old man's work was done.
And fresh from the shining panel,
Finished with perfect grace,
Looked down on the pale dead artist
A pure, young, tender face,
Fresh in its dewy softness,
As a rose in the light may glow
The face that had made the sunshine
Of his life in the long ago ;
And the love through whose perfect fullness
Our nature becomes divine
Had transferred from his faithful keeping
That face to this holy shrine.
There in its place of beauty,
Eyes turned to the rising sun,
He had made her face immortal
He died, for his work was done.
In that grand old English temple
There are marvels of wondrous skill,
Where the brain and hand of the craftsman
Have worked with a perfect will;
But naught has the grace and beauty
Of the face in the niche above
Their work was for gain or glory,
But his - it was done for love.
-MARY J. K. LAWSON.

A noble soul is like a ship at sea That sleeps at anchor when the ocean's calm; But when she rages, and 
the wind blows high, He cuts his way with skill and majesty.
-BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

A FAREWELL.
My fairest child, I have no song to give you ;
No lark could pipe to skies so dull and grey
Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you, For every day.
I'll tell you how to sing a clearer carol
Than lark who hails the dawn or breezy down,
To earn yourself a purer poet's laurel Than Shakespeare's crown.
Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;
Do noble things, not dream them, all day long;
And so make Life, Death, and that vast For Ever One grand, sweet song.
-CHARLES KINGSLEY.

OPTIMISM.
There was never a sunbeam lost, and never a drop of rain ;
There was never a carol sweet, that was sung, and sung - in vain;
There was never a noble thought, but through endless years it lives ;
And never a blacksmith's blow, but an endless use it gives.
There was never a child's full laugh, or a woman's cheerful word,
That did not exalt the state where its tones were felt and heard.
Know, then, that it still holds true from the skies to the humblest soil,
That there is no wasted love and there is no wasted toil!
-	MARGUERITE OGDEN BIGELOW.

" MAORILAND."
They tell of lands of classic lore, With ruins grand and hoary,
Of monarchs who, in days of yore,
Achieved a transient glory;
But there's a land that we love well,
A fair and ample free-land,
Where youthful hope and courage dwell
Our island home, New Zealand.
Afar beneath the Southern Cross, Our fathers came as strangers,
They pledged their faith 'gainst gain or loss,
And bravely faced the dangers.
A great inheritance is ours,
We'll hold it as a dowry,
And grace the bond with native flowers,
'Twixt Pakeha and Maori.
The Empire's farthest outpost, we
Hold by this grand ambition:
In all that's valiant, wise, and free
To emulate tradition.
We, loyal, sing "God save the King,"
No truce we hold with treason;
To faith and sentiment we bring
The light of truth and reason.
With purpose leal and God our guide, With English candour leading,
With Scottish grit and Irish wit
And Maori grace proceeding;
By actions, more than word of mouth,
We'll make this happy free-land
The brighter Britain of the South
Our native land, New Zealand.
Maoriland, our Maoriland,
Queen of the Southern Sea!
Thy fiords, thy lakes, thy mountains grand,
Thy fertile fields and seagirt strand,  Ake ! A toast to thee !
-W. K. MORRISON.

Be Britain still to Britain true;
Amang oursel's united;
For never but by British hands  Maun British wrangs be righted
-BURNS.

NEW YEAR BELLS.
Ring out, wild bells to the wild sky, The flying cloud, the frosty light: The year is dying in the 
night;
Ring out, wild bells, and let him die.
Ring, out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him 
go;
Ring out the false , ring in the true.
Ring out the grief that saps the mind,  For those that here we see no more  Ring out the feud of rich 
and poor,
Ring in redress to all mankind.
Ring out a slowly dying cause,  And ancient forms of party strife;  Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out the want, the care, the sin,  The faithless coldness of the times;  Ring out, ring out my 
mournful rimes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.
Ring out false pride in place and blood,  The civic slander and the spite;  Ring in the love of truth 
and right,
Ring in the common love of good.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;  Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;  Ring out the thousand 
wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Ring in the valiant man and free,  The larger heart, the kindlier hand;  Ring out the darkness of 
the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.
-LORD TENNYSON.


