VIRTUE.

Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay; A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day— When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue. My wife said, as we talked of it together, It seemed as if some of our old farm weather Had got tired of the sober hills of brown, Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town! We went to church, and heard a sermon preached, Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached, And lifted us up toward the town divine, Till we could almost see the steeples shine, And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled Along the massive turnpikes made of gold. We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true It made me think of every flower I knew; And when, with benediction, the old pastor Said "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master, It put my resolution to the rack, To head my poor old tears, and drive them back! We tried to come straight out, as Christians should, And bring away all of it that we could; But there were certain persons there to-day, Who, after church was over, clogged the way, And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles, Held a week-day reception in the aisles. Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame, He wants to get home safely with the same; And hates through jostling gossipers to walk, And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk, Intended, by some power, his mind to bring Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing— From office, and good methods to ensure it, To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.

These are the spires that were gleaming All through my juvenile dreaming; Here the high belfries are singing: Gold invitations they're winging, Asking man through the charmed portal, Where he is once more immortal; Where he may hide from his cares, Under a shelter of prayers. Why do these halls, high and broad, Under the same constant God, Vary in structure and style— Differ, from chancel to aisle? Why forms and creeds so diverse? Why is my blessing your curse? Pondering here on the street, This is one reason I meet: Man's brain is devious and strange— Differs, in form and in range; So that God's fervid love-sun, Falling the same on each one, Differs in form and in hue, (Not the less precious or true)! Body and brain and heart— Temple of infinite art— You had no power to control Hues of your windows of soul!

Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue!—what a start You've got here in this city's feverish heart! There isn't a thing to do that's square and right, But some one's here to teach it, day and night; No soothing balm soul may from soul demand, But some one has it ready to his hand! And then the churches—thick and rich of yield, As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field, Where any one the golden fruit can find All ready cooked to suit his heart and mind; Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease, And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece (Much too expensive, it might well be said, If bodies only need be clothed and fed). And then the missions—regular district schools, Where transient men are taught eternal rules; Then the Salvation Army girls and boys, Who season their religion up with noise, And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the power To help keep silent even half an hour; But who take ragged wretches every day, Haul them into the straight and narrow way, Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it, And get them saved—almost before they know it! It's something good to make these people good, Who never go to church, and never would! God bless each woman, man, and child, I say, That leads His creatures in the heavenly way, Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means, Or march with drums and flags and tambourines! Then there's those men who've crept and crawled as low As even Satan cared to have them go; Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks, Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks, Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells, Have sinned their way through several different hells; Whose lives have been so terribly amiss To ever find worse worlds than they've made this; Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun, And been washed up as clean as any one, And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above; Till they themselves start off on deeds of love, And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow, "I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now." Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss, "What! can there be some square way out of this?" And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes, Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams! Oh you who shout or sing or chant or read— Whatever be your name or style or creed— If any one on earth a plan has got (Whether it's half as good as yours or not) To find a gate into the narrow way, And let in others that have gone astray—— If there's a single chance to mortals given By which to slip poor mortals into Heaven, For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath, Or throw a scornful word into their path! But interfere with help in their affairs, And push them with your money and your prayers! For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath, In this strange world and in the next one, both; And he who saves his fellow-men from pain, Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain? But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner, That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner, Unable even to follow my own view, Much less to counsel others how to do. I can't even eat—when I come right down to it, Without a bell to tell me when to do it. So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse, And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.

I was present, one day Where both layman and priest Worshipped God in a way That was startling, at least: Over thirty in place On the stage, in a row, As is often the case At a minstrelsy show; In a uniform clad Was each one of them seen, And a banjo they had, And a loud tambourine. And they sung and they shouted Their spasmodic joys, Just as if they ne'er doubted That God loved a noise. And their phrases, though all Not deficient in points, A grammarian would call Rather weak in the joints; And the aspirate sound Was adroitly misused, And The Language all round, Was assaulted and bruised; While the tunes that they sung In bewildering throngs, Had been married, when young, To hilarious songs; And the folks in that place, Who this loud racket made, Were not bounded by race Or condition or shade.

Now I love my own meeting, My own cosy pew, While mentally greeting Friends quietly true; And the Gospel dispensed With a dignified grace, Born of reason clear-sensed And a faith firm of place. I love the trained voices That float down the aisles, Till the whole church rejoices With God's sweetest smiles. Have no sneer understood For the rest, when I say I had rather get good In a civilized way. So this meeting had grated Somewhat on my heart, And ere long I had waited, I thought to depart. But a young man arose, Looking sin-drenched and grim, As if rain-storms of woes Had descended on him; No such face you'd discern In a leisurely search, If you took a chance turn Through a civilized church; But his words, though not choice, To my feelings came nigh; There was growth in his voice, There was hope in his eye. And he said, "I'm a lad With a life full of blame; Every step has been bad, Every hour was a shame. And for drink I would pawn All within my control, From the clothes I had on, To my heart and my soul. I have drank the foul stuff In my parents' hot tears; I have done crime enough For a hundred black years; But I came to this place For the help that I craved; I have seen Jesus's face, And I know I am saved." Then a man rose to view, When this youngster was done, And he said, "This is true; That young man is my son. He was drunk every day, And such terror would make, That I spurned him away From my house, like a snake. We have suffered the worst That can come from heart-fears; He is sober the first I have seen him for years. I am full of such joy As I never yet knew; And now, Robert, my boy, Home is open to you! "You may go home with me— Or may run on before; You've a glittering key That will open the door! Your mother is there, Praying for you e'en now; There is snow in her hair, There is pain on her brow. And when you have kissed her The old-fashioned way, There's a brother and sister Who've longed for this day; And whatever can befriend you On earth, shall be done; May God's blessing attend you, My son—oh, my son!" Then the banjo struck in, And the tambourine jingled; There rose such a din That my blood fairly tingled. The vocalists screamed Till quite red in the face; But somehow it all seemed Not at all out of place! Now denouements immense Do riot somehow take hold, Or dramatic events Reach my heart, as of old; But my smiles could not hide The fast-gathering tears, And I cheered, laughed, and cried, As I had not for years! And I thought, "Not amiss Are this tumult and shout: Folks who save men like this Know what they are about. You who fight with God's sword For the good of your kind— You can never afford To leave these men behind. If these women I've seen, Should be pelted or cursed, I would step in between— I would take the blow first. They who draw souls above From the depths lowest down, Will not fail of God's love Or to shine in His crown."

List to the sound of the drumming! Gaily the children are coming; Sweet as the smile of a fairy, Fresh as the blossoms they carry. Pride of the parents who love them, Pure as the azure above them, Free as the winds that caress them, Bright as the sunbeams that bless them.

List to the voice-echoes ringing! Sweeter than birds they are singing; Thoughts that to virtue invite them, Wed unto airs that delight them. Truths that their future will cherish, Soul-planted, never to perish! Only to senses completer, Heaven's choicest music were sweeter!

Virtue, unconscious and pretty, Walks through the streets of the city; See the gay bannerets flying, Mottoes and titles undying; Truths dearly hallowed and olden, Braided in strands that are golden; Words for the spirit's desiring, Sentences sweetly inspiring!

When, in a voice of caressing, Christ gave the children His blessing, 'Twas not for one generation— But for each epoch and nation. So through the present it lingers, Shed from His bountiful fingers; So unto these it is given— Types of the angels in Heaven.