CONSTANCY.

LOVE is the center and circumference;The cause and aim of all things—’tis the keyTo joy and sorrow, and the recompenseFor all the ills that have been, or may be.Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin,As sweet as clover-honey in its cell;Love is the password whereby souls get inTo Heaven—the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell.Love is the crown that glorifies; the curseThat brands and burdens; it is life and deathIt is the great law of the universe;And nothing can exist without its breath.Love is the impulse which directs the world,And all things know it and obey its power.Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled;The bee that takes the pollen to the flower.The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breastTo fervent kisses of the amorous sun;—Each but obeys creative Love’s behest,Which everywhere instinctively is done.Love is the only thing that pays for birth,Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God aboveThis beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,Pity the hearts that know—or know not—Love!

LOVE is the center and circumference;The cause and aim of all things—’tis the keyTo joy and sorrow, and the recompenseFor all the ills that have been, or may be.

Love is as bitter as the dregs of sin,As sweet as clover-honey in its cell;Love is the password whereby souls get inTo Heaven—the gate that leads, sometimes, to Hell.

Love is the crown that glorifies; the curseThat brands and burdens; it is life and deathIt is the great law of the universe;And nothing can exist without its breath.

Love is the impulse which directs the world,And all things know it and obey its power.Man, in the maelstrom of his passions whirled;The bee that takes the pollen to the flower.

The earth, uplifting her bare, pulsing breastTo fervent kisses of the amorous sun;—Each but obeys creative Love’s behest,Which everywhere instinctively is done.

Love is the only thing that pays for birth,Or makes death welcome. Oh, dear God aboveThis beautiful but sad, perplexing earth,Pity the hearts that know—or know not—Love!

IWILL be true. Mad stars forsake their courses,And led by reckless meteors, turn awayFrom paths appointed by Eternal Forces;But my fixed heart shall never go astray.Like those calm worlds whose sun-directed motionIs undisturbed by strife of wind or sea,So shall my swerveless and serene devotionSweep on forever, loyal unto thee.I will be true. The fickle tide, dividedBetween two wooing shores, in wild unrestMay to and fro shift always undecided;Not so the tide of Passion in my breast.With the grand surge of some resistless river,That hurries on, past mountain, vale, and sea,Unto the main, its waters to deliver,So my full heart keeps all its wealth for thee.I will be true. Light barques may be belated,Or turned aside by every breeze at play,While sturdy ships, well-manned and richly freighted,With fair sales flying, anchor safe in Bay,Like some firm rock, that, steadfast and unshaken,Stands all unmoved when ebbing billows flee,So would my heart stand, faithful if forsaken—I will be true, though thou art false to me.

I will be true. The fickle tide, dividedBetween two wooing shores, in wild unrestMay to and fro shift always undecided;Not so the tide of Passion in my breast.With the grand surge of some resistless river,That hurries on, past mountain, vale, and sea,Unto the main, its waters to deliver,So my full heart keeps all its wealth for thee.

I will be true. Light barques may be belated,Or turned aside by every breeze at play,While sturdy ships, well-manned and richly freighted,With fair sales flying, anchor safe in Bay,Like some firm rock, that, steadfast and unshaken,Stands all unmoved when ebbing billows flee,So would my heart stand, faithful if forsaken—I will be true, though thou art false to me.

AS the dead year is clasped by a dead December,So let your dead sins with your dead days lie.A new life is yours, and a new hope. Remember,We build our own ladders to climb to the sky.Stand out in the sunlight of Promise, forgettingWhatever the Past held of sorrow or wrong.We waste half our strength in a useless regretting;We sit by old tombs in the dark too long.Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining.Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next.Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining.Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a text.As each year hurries by let it join that processionOf skeleton shapes that march down to the Past,While you take your place in the line of Progression,With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast.I tell you the future can hold no terrorsFor any sad soul while the stars revolve,If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve.It is never too late to begin rebuilding,Though all into ruins your life seems hurled,For see how the light of the New Year is gildingThe wan, worn face of the bruised old world.

Have you missed in your aim? Well, the mark is still shining.Did you faint in the race? Well, take breath for the next.Did the clouds drive you back? But see yonder their lining.Were you tempted and fell? Let it serve for a text.As each year hurries by let it join that processionOf skeleton shapes that march down to the Past,While you take your place in the line of Progression,With your eyes on the heavens, your face to the blast.

I tell you the future can hold no terrorsFor any sad soul while the stars revolve,If he will stand firm on the grave of his errors,And instead of regretting, resolve, resolve.It is never too late to begin rebuilding,Though all into ruins your life seems hurled,For see how the light of the New Year is gildingThe wan, worn face of the bruised old world.

I’M no reformer; for I see more lightThan darkness in the world; mine eyes are quickTo catch the first dim radiance of the dawn,And slow to note the cloud that threatens storm.The fragrance and the beauty of the roseDelight me so, slight thought I give its thorn;And the sweet music of the lark’s clear songStays longer with me than the night hawk’s cry.And e’en in this great throe of pain called LifeI find a rapture linked with each despair,Well worth the price of anguish. I detectMore good than evil in humanity.Love lights more fires than hate extinguishes,And men grow better as the world grows old.

ITHINK man’s great capacity for painProves his immortal birthright. I am sureNo merely human mind could bear the strainOf some tremendous sorrows we endure.Art’s most ingenious breastworks fail at lengthBeat by the mighty billows of the sea;Only the God-formed shores possess the strengthTo stand before their onslaughts, and not flee.The structure that we build with careful toil,The tempest lays in ruins in an hour;While some grand tree that springs forth from the soilIs bended but not broken by its power.Unless our souls had root in soil divineWe could not bear earth’s overwhelming strife.The fiercest pain that racks this heart of mine,Convinces me of everlasting life.

ITHINK man’s great capacity for painProves his immortal birthright. I am sureNo merely human mind could bear the strainOf some tremendous sorrows we endure.

Art’s most ingenious breastworks fail at lengthBeat by the mighty billows of the sea;Only the God-formed shores possess the strengthTo stand before their onslaughts, and not flee.

The structure that we build with careful toil,The tempest lays in ruins in an hour;While some grand tree that springs forth from the soilIs bended but not broken by its power.

Unless our souls had root in soil divineWe could not bear earth’s overwhelming strife.The fiercest pain that racks this heart of mine,Convinces me of everlasting life.

IMMORTAL life is something to be earned,By slow self-conquest, comradeship with Pain,And patient seeking after higher truths.We cannot follow our own wayward wills,And feed our baser appetites, and giveLoose rein to foolish tempers year on year,And then cry, “Lord forgive me, I believe.”And straightway bathe in glory. Men must learnGod’s system is too grand a thing for that.The spark divine dwells in our souls, and weCan fan it to a steady flame of light,Whose luster gilds the pathway to the tomb,And shines on through Eternity, or elseNeglect it till it glimmers down to Death,And leaves us but the darkness of the grave.Each conquered passion feeds the living flame;Each well-born sorrow is a step towards God;Faith cannot rescue, and no blood redeemThe soul that will not reason and resolve.Lean on thyself, yet prop thyself with prayer,(All hope is prayer; who calls it hope no more,Sends prayer footsore forth over weary wastes,While he who calls it prayer gives wings to hope,)And there are spirits, messengers of Love,Who come at call and fortify our strength.Make friends with them, and with thine inner self;Cast out all envy, bitterness, and hate;And keep the mind’s fair tabernacle pure.Shake hands with Pain, give greeting unto Grief,Those angels in disguise, and thy glad soulFrom height to height, from star to shining star,Shall climb and claim blest immortality.

IPRAYED for riches, and achieved success;All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!My cares were greater and my peace was less,When that wish came to pass.I prayed for glory, and I heard my nameSung by sweet children and by hoary men.But ah! the hurts—the hurts that come with fameI was not happy then.I prayed for Love, and had my heart’s desire.Through quivering heart and body, and through brainThere swept the flame of its devouring fire,And but the scars remain.I prayed for a contented mind. At lengthGreat light upon my darkened spirit burst.Great peace fell on me also, and great strength—Oh, had that prayer been first!

IPRAYED for riches, and achieved success;All that I touched turned into gold. Alas!My cares were greater and my peace was less,When that wish came to pass.

I prayed for glory, and I heard my nameSung by sweet children and by hoary men.But ah! the hurts—the hurts that come with fameI was not happy then.

I prayed for Love, and had my heart’s desire.Through quivering heart and body, and through brainThere swept the flame of its devouring fire,And but the scars remain.

I prayed for a contented mind. At lengthGreat light upon my darkened spirit burst.Great peace fell on me also, and great strength—Oh, had that prayer been first!

THROUGH valley and hamlet and city,Wherever humanity dwells,With a heart full of infinite pity,A breast that with sympathy swells,She walks in her beauty immortal.Each household grows sad as she nears,But she crosses at length every portal,The mystical Lady of Tears.If never this vision of sorrowHas shadowed your life in the past,You will meet her, I know, some to-morrow—She visits all hearthstones at last.To hovel, and cottage, and palace,To servant and king she appears,And offers the gall of her chalice—The unwelcome Lady of Tears.To the eyes that have smiled but in gladness,To the souls that have basked in the sun,She seems in her garments of sadness,A creature to dread and to shun.And lips that have drank but of pleasureGrow pallid and tremble with fears,As she portions the gall from her measure,The merciless Lady of Tears.But in midnight, lone hearts that are quaking,With the agonized numbness of grief,Are saved from the torture of breaking,By her bitter-sweet draught of relief.Oh, then do all graces enfold her;Like a goddess she looks and appears,And the eyes overflow that behold her—The beautiful Lady of Tears.Though she turns to lamenting, all laughter,Though she gives us despair for delight,Life holds a new meaning thereafter,For those who will greet her aright.They stretch out their hands to each other,For Sorrow unites and endears,The children of one tender motherThe sweet, blessed Lady of Tears.

If never this vision of sorrowHas shadowed your life in the past,You will meet her, I know, some to-morrow—She visits all hearthstones at last.To hovel, and cottage, and palace,To servant and king she appears,And offers the gall of her chalice—The unwelcome Lady of Tears.

To the eyes that have smiled but in gladness,To the souls that have basked in the sun,She seems in her garments of sadness,A creature to dread and to shun.And lips that have drank but of pleasureGrow pallid and tremble with fears,As she portions the gall from her measure,The merciless Lady of Tears.

But in midnight, lone hearts that are quaking,With the agonized numbness of grief,Are saved from the torture of breaking,By her bitter-sweet draught of relief.Oh, then do all graces enfold her;Like a goddess she looks and appears,And the eyes overflow that behold her—The beautiful Lady of Tears.

Though she turns to lamenting, all laughter,Though she gives us despair for delight,Life holds a new meaning thereafter,For those who will greet her aright.They stretch out their hands to each other,For Sorrow unites and endears,The children of one tender motherThe sweet, blessed Lady of Tears.

IT is something too strange to understand,How all the chords on the instrument,Whether sorrowful, blithe, or grand,Under the touch of your master handWere into one melody blent.Major, minor, everything—all—Came at your magic fingers’ call.Why! famed musicians had turned in despairAgain and again from those self-same keys;They mayhap brought forth a simple air,But a discord always crept in somewhere,In their fondest efforts to please.Or a jarring, jangling, meaningless strainAngered the silence to noisy pain.“Out of tune,” they would frown and say;Or “a loosened key” or “a broken string;”But sure and certain they were alway,That no man living on earth could playMeasures more perfect, or bringSweeter sounds or a truer airOut of that curious instrument there.And then you came. You swept the scaleWith a mighty master’s wonderful art.You made the minor keys sob and wail,While the low notes rang like a bell in a gale.And every chord in my heart,From the deep bass tones to the shrill ones above,Joined into that glorious harmony—Love.And now, though I live for a thousand years,On no new chord can a new hand fall.The chords of sorrow, of pain, of tears,The chords of raptures and hopes and fears,I say you have struck them all;And all the meaning put into each strainBy the Great Composer, you have made plain.

Why! famed musicians had turned in despairAgain and again from those self-same keys;They mayhap brought forth a simple air,But a discord always crept in somewhere,In their fondest efforts to please.Or a jarring, jangling, meaningless strainAngered the silence to noisy pain.

“Out of tune,” they would frown and say;Or “a loosened key” or “a broken string;”But sure and certain they were alway,That no man living on earth could playMeasures more perfect, or bringSweeter sounds or a truer airOut of that curious instrument there.

And then you came. You swept the scaleWith a mighty master’s wonderful art.You made the minor keys sob and wail,While the low notes rang like a bell in a gale.And every chord in my heart,From the deep bass tones to the shrill ones above,Joined into that glorious harmony—Love.

And now, though I live for a thousand years,On no new chord can a new hand fall.The chords of sorrow, of pain, of tears,The chords of raptures and hopes and fears,I say you have struck them all;And all the meaning put into each strainBy the Great Composer, you have made plain.

IHOLD it true that thoughts are thingsEndowed with bodies, breath, and wings,And that we send them forth to fillThe world with good results—or ill.That which we call our secret thoughtSpeeds to the earth’s remotest spot,And leaves its blessings or its woesLike tracks behind it as it goes.It is God’s law. Remember itIn your still chamber as you sitWith thoughts you would not dare have known,And yet make comrades when alone.These thoughts have life; and they will flyAnd leave their impress by-and-by,Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned breathBreathes into homes its fevered breath.And after you have quite forgotOr all outgrown some vanished thought,Back to your mind to make its home,A dove or raven, it will come.Then let your secret thoughts be fair;They have a vital part and shareIn shaping worlds and molding fate—God’s system is so intricate.

IHOLD it true that thoughts are thingsEndowed with bodies, breath, and wings,And that we send them forth to fillThe world with good results—or ill.

That which we call our secret thoughtSpeeds to the earth’s remotest spot,And leaves its blessings or its woesLike tracks behind it as it goes.

It is God’s law. Remember itIn your still chamber as you sitWith thoughts you would not dare have known,And yet make comrades when alone.

These thoughts have life; and they will flyAnd leave their impress by-and-by,Like some marsh breeze, whose poisoned breathBreathes into homes its fevered breath.

And after you have quite forgotOr all outgrown some vanished thought,Back to your mind to make its home,A dove or raven, it will come.

Then let your secret thoughts be fair;They have a vital part and shareIn shaping worlds and molding fate—God’s system is so intricate.

THERE comes a time to every mortal being,Whate’er his station or his lot in life,When his sad soul yearns for the final freeingFrom all this jarring and unceasing strife.There comes a time, when, having lost its savor,The salt of wealth is worthless; when the mindGrows wearied with the world’s capricious favor,And sighs for something that it cannot find.There comes a time, when, though kind friends are throngingAbout our pathway with sweet acts of grace,We feel a vast and overwhelming longingFor something that we cannot name or place.There comes a time, when, with earth’s best love by us,To feed the heart’s great hunger and desire,We find not even this can satisfy us;The soul within us cries for something higher.What greater proof need we that we inheritA life immortal in another sphere?It is the homesick longing of the spiritThat cannot find its satisfaction here.

THERE comes a time to every mortal being,Whate’er his station or his lot in life,When his sad soul yearns for the final freeingFrom all this jarring and unceasing strife.

There comes a time, when, having lost its savor,The salt of wealth is worthless; when the mindGrows wearied with the world’s capricious favor,And sighs for something that it cannot find.

There comes a time, when, though kind friends are throngingAbout our pathway with sweet acts of grace,We feel a vast and overwhelming longingFor something that we cannot name or place.

There comes a time, when, with earth’s best love by us,To feed the heart’s great hunger and desire,We find not even this can satisfy us;The soul within us cries for something higher.

What greater proof need we that we inheritA life immortal in another sphere?It is the homesick longing of the spiritThat cannot find its satisfaction here.

WITH noiseless steps good goes its way;The earth shakes under evil’s tread.We hear the uproar, and ’tis said,The world grows wicked every day.It is not true. With quiet feet,In silence, Virtue sows her seeds;While Sin goes shouting out his deeds,And echoes listen and repeat.But surely as the old world moves,And circles round the shining sun,So surely does God’s purpose run,And all the human race improves.Despite bold evil’s noise and stir,Truth’s golden harvests ripen fast;The Present far outshines the Past;Men’s thoughts are higher than they were.Who runs may read this truth, I say:Sin travels in a rumbling car,While Virtue soars on like a star—The world grows better every day.

WITH noiseless steps good goes its way;The earth shakes under evil’s tread.We hear the uproar, and ’tis said,The world grows wicked every day.

It is not true. With quiet feet,In silence, Virtue sows her seeds;While Sin goes shouting out his deeds,And echoes listen and repeat.

But surely as the old world moves,And circles round the shining sun,So surely does God’s purpose run,And all the human race improves.

Despite bold evil’s noise and stir,Truth’s golden harvests ripen fast;The Present far outshines the Past;Men’s thoughts are higher than they were.

Who runs may read this truth, I say:Sin travels in a rumbling car,While Virtue soars on like a star—The world grows better every day.

NECESSITY, whom long I deemed my foe,Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged dame,Now I no longer see thy face, I knowThou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame.My best achievements and the fairest flightsOf my winged fancy were inspired by thee;Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights;Thy importunings bade me do and be.But for thy breath, the spark of living fireWithin me might have smoldered out at length;But for thy lash which would not let me tire,I never would have measured my own strength.But for thine ofttimes merciless controlUpon my life, that nerved me past despair,I never should have dug deep in my soulAnd found the mine of treasures hidden there.And though we walk divided pathways now,And I no more may see thee, to the end,I weave this little chaplet for thy brow,That other hearts may know, and hail thee friend.

NECESSITY, whom long I deemed my foe,Thou cold, unsmiling, and hard-visaged dame,Now I no longer see thy face, I knowThou wert my friend beyond reproach or blame.

My best achievements and the fairest flightsOf my winged fancy were inspired by thee;Thy stern voice stirred me to the mountain heights;Thy importunings bade me do and be.

But for thy breath, the spark of living fireWithin me might have smoldered out at length;But for thy lash which would not let me tire,I never would have measured my own strength.

But for thine ofttimes merciless controlUpon my life, that nerved me past despair,I never should have dug deep in my soulAnd found the mine of treasures hidden there.

And though we walk divided pathways now,And I no more may see thee, to the end,I weave this little chaplet for thy brow,That other hearts may know, and hail thee friend.

TRUST in thine own untried capacityAs thou wouldst trust in God Himself. Thy soulIs but an emanation from the whole.Thou dost not dream what forces lie in thee,Vast and unfathomed as the grandest sea.Thy silent mind o’er diamond caves may roll,Go seek them—but let pilot will controlThose passions which thy favoring winds can be.No man shall place a limit in thy strength;Such triumphs as no mortal ever gainedMay yet be thine if thou wilt but believeIn thy Creator and thyself. At lengthSome feet will tread all heights now unattained—Why not thine own? Press on; achieve! achieve!

No man shall place a limit in thy strength;Such triumphs as no mortal ever gainedMay yet be thine if thou wilt but believeIn thy Creator and thyself. At lengthSome feet will tread all heights now unattained—Why not thine own? Press on; achieve! achieve!

THE pain we have to suffer seems so broad,Set side by side with this life’s narrow span,We need no greater evidence that GodHas some diviner destiny for man.He would not deem it worth His while to sendSuch crushing sorrows as pursue us here,Unless beyond this fleeting journey’s endOur chastened spirits found another sphere.So small this world! So vast its agonies!A future life is needed to adjustThese ill-proportioned, wide discrepanciesBetween the spirit and its frame of dust.So when my soul writhes with some aching grief.And all my heart-strings tremble at the strain,My Reason lends new courage to Belief,And all God’s hidden purposes seem plain.

THE pain we have to suffer seems so broad,Set side by side with this life’s narrow span,We need no greater evidence that GodHas some diviner destiny for man.

He would not deem it worth His while to sendSuch crushing sorrows as pursue us here,Unless beyond this fleeting journey’s endOur chastened spirits found another sphere.

So small this world! So vast its agonies!A future life is needed to adjustThese ill-proportioned, wide discrepanciesBetween the spirit and its frame of dust.

So when my soul writhes with some aching grief.And all my heart-strings tremble at the strain,My Reason lends new courage to Belief,And all God’s hidden purposes seem plain.

IKNOW as my life grows older,And mine eyes have clearer sight—That under each rank wrong, somewhereThere lies the root of Right;That each sorrow has its purpose,By the sorrowing oft unguessed,But as sure as the sun brings morning,Whatever is—is best.I know that each sinful action,As sure as the night brings shade,Is somewhere, sometime punished,Tho’ the hour be long delayed.I know that the soul is aidedSometimes by the heart’s unrest,And to grow means often to suffer—But whatever is—is best.I know there are no errors,In the great Eternal plan,And all things work togetherFor the final good of man.And I know when my soul speeds onward,In its grand Eternal quest,I shall say as I look back earthward,Whatever is—is best.

I know that each sinful action,As sure as the night brings shade,Is somewhere, sometime punished,Tho’ the hour be long delayed.I know that the soul is aidedSometimes by the heart’s unrest,And to grow means often to suffer—But whatever is—is best.

I know there are no errors,In the great Eternal plan,And all things work togetherFor the final good of man.And I know when my soul speeds onward,In its grand Eternal quest,I shall say as I look back earthward,Whatever is—is best.

FROM the soul of a man who was homelessCame the deathless song of home.And the praises of rest are chanted bestBy those who are forced to roam.In a time of fast and hunger,We can talk over feasts divine;But the banquet done, why, where is the oneWho can tell you the taste of the wine?We think of the mountain’s grandeurAs we walk in the heat afar—But when we sit in the shadows of itWe think how at rest we are.With the voice of the craving passionsWe can picture a love to come.But the heart once filled, lo, the voice is stilled,And we stand in the silence—dumb.

FROM the soul of a man who was homelessCame the deathless song of home.And the praises of rest are chanted bestBy those who are forced to roam.

In a time of fast and hunger,We can talk over feasts divine;But the banquet done, why, where is the oneWho can tell you the taste of the wine?

We think of the mountain’s grandeurAs we walk in the heat afar—But when we sit in the shadows of itWe think how at rest we are.

With the voice of the craving passionsWe can picture a love to come.But the heart once filled, lo, the voice is stilled,And we stand in the silence—dumb.

LIFE is a Shylock; always it demandsThe fullest usurer’s interest for each pleasure.Gifts are not freely scattered by its hands;We make returns for every borrowed treasure.Each talent, each achievement, and each gainNecessitates some penalty to pay.Delight imposes lassitude and pain,As certainly as darkness follows day.All you bestow on causes or on men,Of love or hate, of malice or devotion,Somehow, sometime, shall be returned again—There is no wasted toil, no lost emotion.The motto of the world is give and take.It gives you favors—out of sheer goodwill.But unless speedy recompense you make,You’ll find yourself presented with its bill.When rapture comes to thrill the heart of you,Take it with tempered gratitude. Remember,Some later time the interest will fall due.No year brings June that does not bring December.

LIFE is a Shylock; always it demandsThe fullest usurer’s interest for each pleasure.Gifts are not freely scattered by its hands;We make returns for every borrowed treasure.

Each talent, each achievement, and each gainNecessitates some penalty to pay.Delight imposes lassitude and pain,As certainly as darkness follows day.

All you bestow on causes or on men,Of love or hate, of malice or devotion,Somehow, sometime, shall be returned again—There is no wasted toil, no lost emotion.

The motto of the world is give and take.It gives you favors—out of sheer goodwill.But unless speedy recompense you make,You’ll find yourself presented with its bill.

When rapture comes to thrill the heart of you,Take it with tempered gratitude. Remember,Some later time the interest will fall due.No year brings June that does not bring December.

STRAIGHT through my heart this fact to-day,By Truth’s own hand is driven:God never takes one thing away,But something else is given.I did not know in earlier years,This law of love and kindness;I only mourned through bitter tearsMy loss, in sorrow’s blindness.But, ever following each regretO’er some departed treasure,My sad repining heart was metWith unexpected pleasure.I thought it only happened so;But Time this truth has taught me—No least thing from my life can go,But something else is brought me.It is the Law, complete, sublime;And now with Faith unshaken,In patience I but bide my time,When any joy is taken.No matter if the crushing blowMay for the moment down me,Still, back of it waits Love, I know,With some new gift to crown me.

STRAIGHT through my heart this fact to-day,By Truth’s own hand is driven:God never takes one thing away,But something else is given.

I did not know in earlier years,This law of love and kindness;I only mourned through bitter tearsMy loss, in sorrow’s blindness.

But, ever following each regretO’er some departed treasure,My sad repining heart was metWith unexpected pleasure.

I thought it only happened so;But Time this truth has taught me—No least thing from my life can go,But something else is brought me.

It is the Law, complete, sublime;And now with Faith unshaken,In patience I but bide my time,When any joy is taken.

No matter if the crushing blowMay for the moment down me,Still, back of it waits Love, I know,With some new gift to crown me.

NO joy for which thy hungering heart has panted,No hope it cherishes through waiting years,But if thou dost deserve it, shall be grantedFor with each passionate wish the blessing nears.Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy beingTo chord with thy dear hope, and do not tire.When both in key and rhythm are agreeing,Lo! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire.The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance,Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb:Essential to thy soul and thy existence—Live worthy of it—call, and it shall come.

NO joy for which thy hungering heart has panted,No hope it cherishes through waiting years,But if thou dost deserve it, shall be grantedFor with each passionate wish the blessing nears.

Tune up the fine, strong instrument of thy beingTo chord with thy dear hope, and do not tire.When both in key and rhythm are agreeing,Lo! thou shalt kiss the lips of thy desire.

The thing thou cravest so waits in the distance,Wrapt in the silences, unseen and dumb:Essential to thy soul and thy existence—Live worthy of it—call, and it shall come.

THERE lies in the center of each man’s heart,A longing and love for the good and pure;And if but an atom, or larger part,I tell you this shall endure—endureAfter the body has gone to decay—Yea, after the world has passed away.The longer I live and the more I seeOf the struggle of souls toward the heights above,The stronger this truth comes home to me:That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love;A love so limitless, deep, and broad,That men have renamed it and called it—God.And nothing that ever was born or evolved,Nothing created by light or force,But deep in its system there lies dissolvedA shining drop from the Great Love Source;A shining drop that shall live for aye—Though kingdoms may perish and stars decay.

The longer I live and the more I seeOf the struggle of souls toward the heights above,The stronger this truth comes home to me:That the Universe rests on the shoulders of love;A love so limitless, deep, and broad,That men have renamed it and called it—God.

And nothing that ever was born or evolved,Nothing created by light or force,But deep in its system there lies dissolvedA shining drop from the Great Love Source;A shining drop that shall live for aye—Though kingdoms may perish and stars decay.

KEEP out of the Past! for its highwaysAre damp with malarial gloom;Its gardens are sere and its forests are drear.And everywhere molders a tomb.Who seeks to regain its lost pleasures,Finds only a rose turned to dust;And its storehouse of wonderful treasuresAre covered and coated with rust.Keep out of the Past. It is haunted:He who in its avenues gropes,Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most,And a skeleton throng of dead hopes.In place of its beautiful rivers,Are pools that are stagnant with slime;And these graves gleaming in a phosphoric light,Hide dreams that were slain in their prime.Keep out of the Past. It is lonely,And barren and bleak to the view;Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old—Turn, turn to the Present—the New:To-day leads you up to the hilltopsThat are kissed by the radiant sun,To-day shows no tomb, life’s hopes are in bloom,And to-day holds a prize to be won.

Keep out of the Past. It is haunted:He who in its avenues gropes,Shall find there the ghost of a joy prized the most,And a skeleton throng of dead hopes.In place of its beautiful rivers,Are pools that are stagnant with slime;And these graves gleaming in a phosphoric light,Hide dreams that were slain in their prime.

Keep out of the Past. It is lonely,And barren and bleak to the view;Its fires have grown cold, and its stories are old—Turn, turn to the Present—the New:To-day leads you up to the hilltopsThat are kissed by the radiant sun,To-day shows no tomb, life’s hopes are in bloom,And to-day holds a prize to be won.

THE fault of the age is a mad endeavorTo leap to heights that were made to climb:By a burst of strength, of a thought most clever,We plan to forestall and outwit Time.We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;We want high noon at the day’s dim dawn;We find no pleasure in toiling and saving,As our forefathers did in the old times gone.We force our roses, before their season,To bloom and blossom for us to wear;And then we wonder and ask the reasonWhy perfect buds are so few and rare.We crave the gain, but despise the getting;We want wealth—not as reward, but dower;And the strength that is wasted in useless frettingWould fell a forest or build a tower.To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight;Why what can it lead to at last but sinning,To mental languor and moral blight?Better the old slow way of striving,And counting small gains when the year is done,Than to use our force and our strength in contriving,And to grasp for pleasure we have not won.

THE fault of the age is a mad endeavorTo leap to heights that were made to climb:By a burst of strength, of a thought most clever,We plan to forestall and outwit Time.

We scorn to wait for the thing worth having;We want high noon at the day’s dim dawn;We find no pleasure in toiling and saving,As our forefathers did in the old times gone.

We force our roses, before their season,To bloom and blossom for us to wear;And then we wonder and ask the reasonWhy perfect buds are so few and rare.

We crave the gain, but despise the getting;We want wealth—not as reward, but dower;And the strength that is wasted in useless frettingWould fell a forest or build a tower.

To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning;To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight;Why what can it lead to at last but sinning,To mental languor and moral blight?

Better the old slow way of striving,And counting small gains when the year is done,Than to use our force and our strength in contriving,And to grasp for pleasure we have not won.

DISTRUST that man who tells you to distrust:He takes the measure of his own small soul,And thinks the world no larger. He who pratesOf human nature’s baseness and deceitLooks in the mirror of his heart, and seesHis kind therein reflected. Or perchanceThe honeyed wine of life was turned to gallBy sorrow’s hand, which brimmed his cup with tears,And made all things seem bitter to his taste.Give him compassion! But be not afraidOf nectared Love, or Friendship’s strengthening draught,Nor think a poison underlies their sweets.Look through true eyes—you will discover truth:Suspect suspicion, and doubt only doubt.

TAKE thy life better than thy work. Too oftOur artists spend their skill in rounding softFair curves upon their statues, while the roughAnd ragged edges of the unhewn stuffIn their own natures startle and offendThe eye of critic and the heart of friend.If in thy too brief day thou must neglectThy labor or thy life, let men detectFlaws in thy work! while their most searching gazeCan fall on nothing which they may not praiseIn thy well chiseled character. The ManShould not be shadowed by the Artisan!

If in thy too brief day thou must neglectThy labor or thy life, let men detectFlaws in thy work! while their most searching gazeCan fall on nothing which they may not praiseIn thy well chiseled character. The ManShould not be shadowed by the Artisan!

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