For what? A name he may not breathe,
For liberty of prayer and thought.
The angry sword he will not whet,
His nobler task is--to forget.






IN EXILE.


"Since that day till now our life is one unbroken paradise. We
live a true brotherly life. Every evening after supper we take
a seat under the mighty oak and sing our songs."--Extract from
a letter of a Russian refugee in Texas.


Twilight is here, soft breezes bow the grass,
Day's sounds of various toil break slowly off,
The yoke-freed oxen low, the patient ass
Dips his dry nostril in the cool, deep trough.
Up from the prairie the tanned herdsmen pass
With frothy pails, guiding with voices rough
Their udder-lightened kine. Fresh smells of earth,
The rich, black furrows of the glebe send forth.


After the Southern day of heavy toil,