I prize the instinct that can turn From vain pretence with proud disdain; Yet more I prize a simple heart; Paying credulity with pain.

I bow before the n.o.ble mind That freely some great wrong forgives; Yet n.o.bler is the one forgiven, Who bears that burden well, and lives.

It may be hard to gain, and still To keep a lowly steadfast heart Yet he who loses has to fill A harder and a truer part.

Glorious it is to wear the crown Of a deserved and pure success;-- He who knows how to fail has won A Crown whose l.u.s.tre is not less.

Great may he be who can command And rule with just and tender sway; Yet is diviner wisdom taught Better by him who can obey.

Blessed are those who die for G.o.d, And earn the Martyr's crown of light-- Yet he who lives for G.o.d may be A greater Conqueror in His sight.

VERSE: OPTIMUS

There is a deep and subtle snare Whose sure temptation hardly fails, Which, just because it looks so fair, Only a n.o.ble heart a.s.sails.

So all the more we need be strong Against this false and seeming Right; Which none the less is deadly wrong, Because it glitters clothed in light.

When duties unfulfilled remain, Or n.o.ble works are left unplanned, Or when great deeds cry out in vain On coward heart and trembling hand,--

Then will a seeming Angel speak:-- "The hours are fleeting--great the need-- If thou art strong and others weak, Thine be the effort and the deed.

"Deaf are their ears who ought to hear; Idle their hands, and dull their soul; While sloth, or ignorance, or fear, Fetters them with a blind control.

"Sort thou the tangled web aright; Take thou the toil--take thou the pain: For fear the hour begin its flight, While Right and Duty plead in vain."

And now it is I bid thee pause, Nor let this Tempter bend thy will: There are diviner, truer laws That teach a n.o.bler lesson still.

Learn that each duty makes its claim Upon one soul: not each on all.

How, if G.o.d speaks thy Brother's name, Dare thou make answer to the call?

The greater peril in the strife, The less this evil should be done; For as in battle, so in life, Danger and honour still are one.

Arouse him then:- this is thy part: Show him the claim; point out the need; And nerve his arm, and cheer his heart; Then stand aside, and say "G.o.d speed!"

Smooth thou his path ere it is trod; Burnish the arms that he must wield; And pray, with all thy strength, that G.o.d May crown him Victor of the field.

And then, I think, thy soul shall feel A n.o.bler thrill of true content, Than if presumptuous, eager zeal Had seized a crown for others meant.

And even that very deed shall shine In mystic sense, divine and true, More wholly and more purely thine-- Because it is another's too.

VERSE: A LOST CHORD

Seated one day at the Organ, I was weary and ill at ease, And my fingers wandered idly Over the noisy keys.

I do not know what I was playing, Or what I was dreaming then; But I struck one chord of music, Like the sound of a great Amen.

It flooded the crimson twilight Like the close of an Angel's Psalm, And it lay on my fevered spirit With a touch of infinite calm.

It quieted pain and sorrow, Like love overcoming strife; It seemed the harmonious echo From our discordant life.

It linked all perplexed meanings Into one perfect peace, And trembled away into silence As if it were loth to cease.

I have sought, but I seek it vainly, That one lost chord divine, Which came from the soul of the Organ, And entered into mine.

It may be that Death's bright angel Will speak in that chord again,-- It may be that only in Heaven I shall hear that grand Amen.

VERSE: TOO LATE

Hush! speak low; tread softly; Draw the sheet aside;-- Yes, she does look peaceful; With that smile she died.

Yet stern want and sorrow Even now you trace On the wan, worn features Of the still white face.

Restless, helpless, hopeless, Was her bitter part;-- Now--how still the Violets Lie upon her Heart!

She who toiled and laboured For her daily bread; See the velvet hangings Of this stately bed.

Yes, they did forgive her; Brought her home at last; Strove to cover over Their relentless past.

Ah, they would have given Wealth, and home, and pride, To see her just look happy Once before she died!

They strove hard to please her, But, when death is near All you know is deadened, Hope, and joy, and fear.

And besides, one sorrow Deeper still--one pain Was beyond them: healing Came to-day--in vain!

If she had but lingered Just a few hours more; Or had this letter reached her Just one day before!

I can almost pity Even him to-day; Though he let this anguish Eat her heart away.

Yet she never blamed him:- One day you shall know How this sorrow happened; It was long ago.

I have read the letter: Many a weary year, For one word she hungered-- There are thousands here.

If she could but hear it, Could but understand; See--I put the letter In her cold white hand.

Even these words, so longed for, Do not stir her rest; Well--I should not murmur, For G.o.d judges best.

She needs no more pity,-- But I mourn his fate, When he hears his letter Came a day too late.