A Prayer

Just as I shape the purport of my thought, Lord of the Universe, shape Thou my lot. Let each ill thought that in my heart may be, Mould circumstance and bring ill luck to me.

Until I weed the garden of my mind From all that is unworthy and unkind, Am I not master of my mind, dear Lord? Then as I think, so must be my reward.

Who sows in weakness, cannot reap in strength, That which we plant, we gather in at length. Great God of Justice, be Thou just to me, And as my thoughts, so let my future be.

THE LONDON ‘BOBBY’ A TRIBUTE TO THE POLICEMEN OF ENGLAND’S CAPITAL

Here in my cosy corner, Before a blazing log, I’m thinking of cold London Wrapped in its killing fog; And, like a shining beacon Above the picture grim, I see the London ‘Bobby,’ And sing my song for him.

I see his stalwart figure, I see his kindly face, I hear his helpful answer At any hour or place. For, though you seek some by-way Long miles from his own beat, He tells you all about it, And how to find the street.

He looks like some bold Viking, This king of earth’s police— Yet in his voice lies feeling, And in his eye lies peace; He knows and does his duty— (What higher praise is there?) And London’s lords and paupers Alike receive his care.

He has a regal bearing, Yet one that breathes repose; It is the look and manner Of one who thinks and knows. Oh, men who govern nations, In old worlds or in new, Turn to the London ‘Bobby’ And learn a thing or two.

READ AT THE BENEFIT OF CLARA MORRIS