Part 12 (1/2)

The world is full of warfare 'twixt the evil and the good; I watched the battle from afar as one who understood The shouting and confusion, the b.l.o.o.d.y, blundering fight-- How few there are that see it clear, how few that wage it right!

The captains flushed with foolish pride, the soldiers pale with fear, The faltering flags, the feeble fire from ranks that swerve and veer, The wild mistakes, the dismal doubts, the coward hearts that flee-- The good cause needs a n.o.bler knight to win the victory.

A man whose soul is pure and strong, whose sword is bright and keen, Who knows the splendour of the fight and what its issues mean; Who never takes one step aside, nor halts, though hope be dim, But cleaves a pathway thro' the strife, and bids men follow him.

No blot upon his stainless s.h.i.+eld, no weakness in his arm; No sign of trembling in his face to break his valour's charm: A man like this could stay the flight and lead the wavering line; Ah, give me but a year of life--I'll make that glory mine!

Religion? Yes, I know it well; I've heard its prayers and creeds, And seen men put them all to shame with poor, half-hearted deeds.

They follow Christ, but far away; they wander and they doubt.

I'll serve him in a better way, and live his precepts out.

You see, I waited just for this; I could not be content To own a feeble, faltering faith with human weakness blent.

Too many runners in the race move slowly, stumble, fall; But I will run so straight and swift I shall outstrip them all.

Oh, think what it will mean to men, amid their foolish strife, To see the clear, unshadowed light of one true Christian life, Without a touch of selfishness, without a taint of sin,-- With one short month of such a life a new world would begin!

And love!--I often dream of that--the treasure of the earth; How little they who use the coin have realised its worth!

'Twill pay all debts, enrich all hearts, and make all joys secure.

But love, to do its perfect work, must be sincere and pure.

My heart is full of virgin gold. I'll pour it out and spend My hidden wealth with open hand on all who call me friend.

Not one shall miss the kindly deed, the largess of relief, The generous fellows.h.i.+p of joy, the sympathy of grief.

I'll say the loyal, helpful things that make life sweet and fair, I'll pay the grat.i.tude I owe for human love and care.

Perhaps I've been at fault sometimes--I'll ask to be forgiven, And make this little room of mine seem like a bit of heaven.

For one by one I'll call my friends to stand beside my bed; I'll speak the true and tender words so often left unsaid; And every heart shall throb and glow, all coldness melt away Around my altar-fire of love--ah, give me but one day!

What's that? I've had another day, and wasted it again?

A priceless day in empty dreams, another chance in vain?

Thou fool--this night--it's very dark--the last--this choking breath-- One prayer--have mercy on a dreamer's soul--G.o.d, this is death!

A LEGEND OF SERVICE

It pleased the Lord of Angels (praise His name!) To hear, one day, report from those who came With pitying sorrow, or exultant joy, To tell of earthly tasks in His employ.

For some were grieved because they saw how slow The stream of heavenly love on earth must flow; And some were glad because their eyes had seen, Along its banks, fresh flowers and living green.

At last, before the whiteness of the throne The youngest angel, Asmiel, stood alone; Nor glad, nor sad, but full of earnest thought, And thus his tidings to the Master brought ”Lord, in the city Lupon I have found Three servants of thy holy name, renowned Above their fellows. One is very wise, With thoughts that ever range beyond the skies; And one is gifted with the golden speech That makes men gladly hear when he will teach; And one, with no rare gift or grace endued, Has won the people's love by doing good.

With three such saints Lupon is trebly blest; But, Lord, I fain would know, which loves Thee best?”

Then spake the Lord of Angels, to whose look The hearts of all are like an open book: ”In every soul the secret thought I read, And well I know who loves me best indeed.

But every life has pages vacant still, Whereon a man may write the thing he will; Therefore I read the record, day by day, And wait for hearts untaught to learn my way.