His Bible in a language that hath died.
And is forgotten save by thee alone."--_Longfellow_.

* * * * *




HIS GREATEST TRIUMPH.

By Henrietta E. Page.


Yet slept the wearied mæstro, and all around was still,
Though the sunlight danced on tree-top, on valley, and on hill;
The distant city's busy hum, just faintly heard afar,
Served but to lull to deeper rest Euterpe's brilliant star.

Wilhelmj slept, for over-night his triumphs had been grand,
He had praised and fêted been by the noblest in the land,
And rich and poor had vied alike to honor Music's king,
Making the lofty rafters with the wildest plaudits ring.

Now, brain and hand aweary, he had fled for peace and rest,
And he should be disturbed by none, not e'en a royal guest.
The porter nodded in his chair: I dare not say he slept:
But sprang upright, as through the door a fairy vision crept.

A tiny girl with shining eyes, and wavy golden hair,
Tip-toed along the corridor, and close up to his chair,