Does It Pay?

Does it pay--all this burden and worry, All the learning acquired with pain, All the planning and nervous wild action, The restlessness following gain, Does it pay?

To be free from this burden and worry, To have knowledge without fear and pain, To be peaceful, far-seeing, sweet tempered, And calm in the presence of gain, We must know the pure secret of Nature, Like her be obedient to law, And work in the light of the promise Of blessed results Christ foresaw. Then each day, And alway, Life will pay.

AUXILIUM AB ALTO.

The poet young e'er finds a tongue To tell the joys of love. The poet bold e'en dares behold The mystery above.

The poet brave e'er loves to rave Of wars and victories gained. The poet sweet e'en dares repeat The angels' songs unfeigned.

And to each one we say, "Well done, Go on and do thy best." Though still we feel each doth but seal A part of life's bequest.

But yet we cry, "O goddess high, Must thou thy wealth so share? America feign would have the reign Of one thy gift to bear.

She needs such one to help her shun The dangerous shoals of thought, Which in this age of clown and sage Her progress gained hath wrought.

She needs such one to help her shun The deeper shoals of wrong, Which in these days of doubt's fond lays Tempt e'en her favored strong.

Oh, send such one to say, 'Well done,' And tell in truth God's plan, While he declares as well as shares The fullest life of man."

LIMITATIONS.

"Would that my acts could equal the noble acts I've told. Would that I could but master myself as visions bold!"

So cried a famous artist, in agony of soul, As waves of great temptation before him high did roll.

"Oh, would that I could body the thoughts that govern me. Oh, would that I could picture the visions I foresee!"

So cried a saintly woman, in ecstasy of pain, As waves of sad depression rolled on her soul to gain.

THE MUSE OF HISTORY.

Clio, with her flickering light And book of valued lore, Comes down the ages, dark and bright, Our interest to implore.

She walks with glad majestic mien, Proud of her knowledge gained; Though mourning oft at having seen Man's life so dulled and pained.

Her face with lines of care is wrought, From searching mystery's cause, And dealing with the hidden thought Of nature's subtle laws.

Yet still she blushes with new life At sight of actions fine, And pales with anguish at the strife Of evil's dread design.

She stops to sing her grandest lays When, in creation's heat, She sees evolved a higher phase Of life's fruition sweet.

'Twas thus in days of Genesis, When man came forth supreme. 'Twas thus in days of Nemesis, When Love did dare redeem.

And thus 'twill be in future days, When out from spirit laws, Shall be brought forth for lasting praise The ever great First Cause.

Oh, gladly know this wondrous muse Who walks the aisles of Time, And not so thoughtlessly refuse Her book of lore sublime;

For in it is the precious force Of spirit-life divine, Which even through a winding course Leads in to Wisdom's shrine.

AN IMPROMPTU.

(Written for G. H. T., on the death of W. S. T., March, 1889.)

As brothers here we've shared the smiles, The tears of boyhood's hour, And felt the sweet companionship Of manhood's love and power.

But now the tie is snapped. He's fled Beyond the mortal sight. The grave with all its mystery Asserts Death's power to blight.

Alas! Death seems the cruel thing In this bright world of ours. The bravest soul shrinks from its hold Though loving faith empowers.

But, hark! Is 't not his voice I hear, With comfort as of yore? "Dear brother, Death is but more Life, The grave is heaven's door."

TO MRS. PARTINGTON.

July 12, 1886.

Another birthday here? It hardly seems a year Since I these words did hear,-- When three score years and one did crown thee,-- "Not till I am an octagon, Or, worse still, a centurion, Shall I be old, with factories gone All idiomatic and forlorn."

But thou art still a "membrane" dear Of what we call society's cheer; "Ordained beforehand, in advance." ('Twas "foreordained," that does enhance,)

To hurl not "epitaphs" which sting, But a new "Erie's" dawn to bring, Of "fluid" thoughts which counteract The "bigamies" of fate and fact.

Alas! thy crutch of many years Still hints "romantic" pains and fears; A "Widow Cruise's oil jug" say, To keep "plumbago" still at bay!

Its helpful mission has a share In "Lines of Pleasant Places" rare. And, by the way, not crutch alone Finds in that book its value shown.

There in the depths of friendship's mines Are seen thy tenderest, purest lines; Impromptus born at love's command To deck occasion's wise demand.

One finds no "Sarah's desert" there, No "reprehensible" despair; But teeming thoughts on Mounds and Press Poured out in pure unselfishness.

This brings to mind thy Knitting-Work, Wherein that "plaguey Ike" does lurk, And other books with humor rife, Done in the priming of thy life.

"Contusion of ideas." O no; What "Angular Saxon" would say so? "Congestive thoughts then so inane They'd decompose the soundest brain."

Yes, there it is, thy humor still, Not seventy years and two can kill. 'Tis free from all "harmonious" lore, A "wholesome" not a "ringtail" store.