He claims no praises for his love, He seeks no tribute for his worth, But sows the desert hearts of earth With blossoms from the vales above; And in their sunshine warm and bright He holds these duties as his right.

Where lives are dark with dismal groans Great men are often chained by fate, And oft are slaves more truly great Than princes on their purple thrones; But servant brows are bound with shame, While monarchs flutter into fame.

Deeds pure and n.o.ble, gladly done, Unselfish work for sickly souls When sorrow in black surges rolls And gloomy darkness hides the sun,-- These in their truth make more the man Than royal aim or princely plan.

But sometime man shall rule by thought, And worth shall gain her just return, Till all shall every singer spurn Who in the ancient cycles taught That heroes rest in royal graves, But never in the tombs of slaves.

IF WE BUT KNEW.

If we but knew the weary way, The poisoned paths of hostile hate, The roughened roads of fiercest fate, Through which our brother's journey lay, Would we condemn, as now we do, His faults and failures,--if we knew?

Would we forget the shadows grim, The lonely hours of grief and pain, The follies dead, the pleasures slain, The tears and toils that hindered him, And only prize the deeds that grew To mighty conquest, if we knew?

Would careless hand sow tares of strife, Amid the blooms of happy care, And plant, in spite of sigh and prayer, Wild thorns amid the blameless life, Till sorrows rule the nations through, With scarce a rival, if we knew?

Would we be quicker with our praise, And gladly give the greatest meeds As recompense for n.o.ble deeds, And heroes crown with brightest bays, And slay all foes that hearts imbue With doubt and weakness, if we knew?

From lofty kings would constant worth On peasant brows their crowns bestow, And rising from her overthrow Eternal justice rule the earth, While right would strip the favored few To bless the many, if we knew?

If we but knew! Ah, well-a-day!

From lives that murmur, full of ills, Behind the shadows of the hills, G.o.d hides our brother's heart away; And we shall know in vales of rest That His eternal ways are best!

HOPE.

When man from pure perfection fell, And bathed his life in grief and woe, His angel heart had overthrow From all the joys he loved so well, And only Hope of all the host Remained to comfort him when lost.

And when the other pa.s.sions throw Their phantoms in the arms of death, And pour their last remaining breath Within the dismal haunts of woe, Then Hope alone of all remains To soothe our sorrows and our pains.

Hope makes the fearful millions brave, The helpless and the weary strong, Gives courage to the fainting throng And whispers freedom to the slave, And unto each, where'er he lives, Unceasing cause to struggle gives.

In heavy hours of ghostly gloom When raging billows dash and beat Around the weak and weary feet Which tremble on the yawning tomb, The harp of Hope divinely sings Exalted songs of better things.

It lifts the gaze of mortal eyes Above the desert and the dearth, Above the barren fields of earth, Unto the promise of the skies, And to the last expiring breath Gives comfort in the hour of death.

O, sacred light of human life, Eternal star of Heaven's love, Thy brightness ever shines above The darkest hours of woe and strife, To raise our souls above the sod Into the holy home of G.o.d!

DESPONDENCY.

O, gloomy world that rolls in weary s.p.a.ce, And moans wild music to the broken spheres, Whose rivers wander into seas of tears, Despair has bound thee in a close embrace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Death grows beside existence, and with time Is comrade of its changes; cycles roll Their heavy circles through the human soul, And pour their dirges into mournful rhyme; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

He gropes in shadows for a happy beam That shall delight his bosom; into mist Dissolves the substance that ambition kissed, While greatness grows the garland of a dream; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Endeavor struggles to an open grave; The past is lost in monumental dust, Where age on age in angry ire has thrust The wise, the strong, the mighty, and the brave; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

The years are shades that totter from their tombs, The ages, ghosts that live in catacombs And lure the Present to their awful homes, Where ancient races wander in the glooms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Oblivion welcomes men with gentle arms, And presses them like infants to her breast, Repeats to them her lullabies of rest, And guards them from all sorrows and alarms; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

Then hasten, world, and let my battle cease; I care not where I stay nor when I go; For action gives unhappiness and woe, But Lethe brings forgetfulness and peace; A birth, a life, a death; man is no more!

IF LOVE WERE KING.

If Love were king, That sacred Love which knows not selfish pleasure, But for its children spends its fondest treasure, Sad hearts would sing, And all the hosts of misery and wrong Forget their anguish in the happy song That joy would bring.

If Love were king, Gaunt wickedness would hide his loathsome features, And virtue would to all the world's sad creatures Her treasures fling; Till drooping souls would rise above their fate, And find sweet flowers for all the desolate And sorrowing.

If Love were king, Before the scepter of his might should vanish Toil's curse and care, and happiness should banish Want's awful sting; While laughing plenty from sweet hands would throw Delightful raptures over all below, And gladness bring.

If Love were king, The nations would eternal sunshine borrow, And conquer all the heavy clouds of sorrow And every thing That binds the race in groans and agony; Life's changing seasons would forever be Unvaried spring.

If Love were king!

O, broken feet that wander worn and weary Beneath the crags and awful mountains dreary, With rapture cling Your anguished arms about him; drink delight Upon his perfect bosom soft and white And comforting!

"SING ME THE OLD SONGS, MOTHER."

Our souls are the deserts of sorrow, Our hearts are the ashes of hope, And madly from gladness we borrow The brightness where sadness may grope; My raptures in wretchedness vanish, My bosom is weeping with wrongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

My joys are in memory lying, Still ardently happy with youth, When smiles in ambition were dying, And life was the vision of youth; My brow for your gentle caresses And kisses of tenderness longs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

Sweet murmurs in mystical measures Come soothingly over my soul, Where voices of babyish pleasures And echoes of lullabies roll; The struggles of all my endeavor Are bound in the darkest of thongs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.

I fain would return in my dreaming To years that proclaimed me a boy, When gladness was happily beaming And life was a musical toy; My sorrow has never Nepenthe, My woe in its bitterness throngs; Then sing me the old songs, mother, Then sing me the dear old songs.