How sweet the hour of Sabbath talk,

The vale with peace and sunshine full, Where all the happy people walk,

Decked in their homespun flax and wool; Where youth's gay hats with blossoms bloom; And every maid, with simple art,

Wears on her breast, like her own heart,

A bud whose depths are all perfume;

While every garment's gentle stir
Is breathing rose and lavender.

The pastor came; his snowy locks
Hallowed his brow of thought and care;
And calmly, as shepherds lead their flocks,
He led into the house of prayer.
Then soon he rose; the prayer was strong;
The Psalm was warrior David's song;
The text, a few short words of might-
"The Lord of hosts shall arm the right!"
He spoke of wrongs too long endured,
Of sacred rights to be secured;

Then from his patriot tongue of flame
The startling words for Freedom came.
The stirring sentences he spake
Compelled the heart to glow or quake,
And, rising on the theme's broad wing,
And grasping in his nervous hand
The imaginary battle-brand,

In face of death he dared to fling
Defiance to a tyrant king.

Even as he spoke, his frame, renewed
In eloquence of attitude,

Rose, as it seemed, a shoulder higher;
Then swept his kindling glance of fire
From startled pew to breathless choir;
When suddenly his mantle wide
His hands impatient flung aside,
And, lo! he met their wondering eyes
Complete in all a warrior's guise.

A moment there was awful pause-
When Berkley cried, "Cease, traitor! cease!
God's temple is the house of peace!"
The other shouted, "Nay, not so,
When God is with our righteous cause;
His holiest places then are ours,
His temples are our forts and towers
That frown upon the tyrant foe;
In this, the dawn of Freedom's day,
There is a time to fight and pray!"

And now before the open door

The warrior priest had ordered soThe enlisting trumpet's sudden roar Rang through the chapel, o'er and o'er, Its long reverberating blow.

So loud and clear, it seemed the ear
Of dusty death must wake and hear.
And there the startling drum and fife
Fired the living with fiercer life;
While overhead, with wild increase,

Forgetting its ancient toll of peace,

The great bell swung as ne'er before.
It seemed as it would never cease;

And every word its order flung

From off its jubilant iron tongue

Was, "War! WAR! WAR!"

"Who dares?"-this was the patriot's cry,
As striding from the desk he came
"Come out with me, in Freedom's name,

For her to live, for her to die!"
A hundred hands flung up reply,

A hundred voices answered, "I!"

THE LEGEND OF THE ORGAN-BUILDER

BY JULIA C. R. DORR

Day by day the Organ-builder in his lonely chamber wrought;

Day by day the soft air trembled to the music of his

thought;

Till at last the work was ended; and no organ voice so grand Ever yet had soared responsive to the master's magic hand.

Ay, so rarely was it builded that whenever groom and bride, Who, in God's sight were well-pleasing, in the church stood side by side,

Without touch or breath the organ of itself began to play, And the very airs of heaven through the soft gloom seemed to stray.

He was young, the Organ-builder, and o'er all the land his fame

Ran with fleet and eager footsteps, like a swiftly rushing

flame.

All the maidens heard the story; all the maidens blushed and smiled

By his youth and wondrous beauty and his great renown beguiled.

So he sought and won the fairest, and the wedding-day was

set:

Happy day-the brightest jewel in the glad year's coronet! But when they the portal entered, he forgot his lovely

bride

Forgot his love, forgot his God, and his heart swelled high with pride.

"Ah!" thought he, "how great a master am I! When the organ plays,

How the vast cathedral-arches will reecho with my praise!" Up the aisle the gay procession moved. The altar shone afar,

With every candle gleaming through soft shadows like a

star.

But he listened, listened, listened, with no thought of love or prayer,

For the swelling notes of triumph from his organ standing

there.

All was silent. Nothing heard he save the priest's low monotone,

And the bride's robe trailing softly o'er the floor of fretted stone.

Then his lips grew white with anger. Surely God was pleased with him.

Who had built the wondrous organ for His temple vast and

dim!

Whose the fault then? Hers-the maiden standing meekly at his side!

Flamed his jealous rage, maintaining she was false to himhis bride.

Vain were all her protestations, vain her innocence and truth;

On that very night he left her to her anguish and her ruth. Far he wandered to a country wherein no man knew his

name:

For ten weary years he dwelt there, nursing still his wrath and shame.

Then his haughty heart grew softer, and he thought by night and day.

Of the bride he had deserted, till he hardly dared to pray; Thought of her, a spotless maiden, fair and beautiful and good;

Thought of his relentless anger, that had cursed her womanhood;

Till his yearning grief and penitence at last were all com

plete,

And he longed, with bitter longing, just to fall down at her

feet.

Ah! how throbbed his heart' when, after many a weary day and night,

Rose his native towers before him, with the sunset glow

alight!