BROTHERHOOD

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart In a fellowless firmament; There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths Where highways never ran— But let me live by the side of the road And be a friend to man. Let me live in a house by the side of the road, Where the race of men go by— The men who are good and the men who are bad, As good and as bad as I. I would not sit in the scorner's seat, Or hurl the cynic's ban— Let me live in a house by the side of the road, And be a friend to man. I see from my house by the side of the road, By the side of the highway of life, The men who press with the ardor of hope The men who are faint with the strife. But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears— Both parts of an infinite plan— Let me live in a house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead And mountains of wearisome height; And the road passes on through the long afternoon And stretches away to the night. But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice, And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road Like a man who dwells alone. Let me live in my house by the side of the road Where the race of men go by— They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong, Wise, foolish—so am I. Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat Or hurl the cynic's ban? Let me live in my house by the side of the road And be a friend to man. —Sam Walter Foss.

Say, is your lamp burning, my brother? I pray you look quickly and see; For if it were burning, then surely Some beams would fall brightly on me. Straight, straight is the road, but I falter. And oft I fall out by the way; Then lift your lamp higher, my brother, Lest I should make fatal delay. There are many and many around you Who follow wherever you go; If you thought that they walked in the shadow Your lamp would burn brighter, I know. Upon the dark mountains they stumble, They are bruised on the rocks, and they lie With their white pleading faces turned upward To the clouds and the pitiful sky. There is many a lamp that is lighted, We behold them anear and afar, But not many among them, my brother, Shine steadily on, like a star. I think, were they trimmed night and morning, They would never burn down or go out, Though from the four quarters of heaven The winds were all blowing about. If once all the lamps that are lighted Should steadily blaze in a line, Wide over the land and the ocean, What a girdle of glory would shine! How all the dark places would brighten! How the mists would roll up and away! How the earth would laugh out in her gladness To hail the millennial day! Say, is your lamp burning, my brother? I pray you look quickly and see; For if it were burning, then surely Some beams would fall brightly on me.

If I should die to-night, My friends would look upon my quiet face Before they laid it in its resting-place, And deem that death had left it almost fair, And laying snow-white flowers upon my hair, Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness, And fold my hands with lingering caress— Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night! If I should die to-night, My friends would call to mind, with loving thought, Some kindly deed the icy hand had wrought, Some gentle word the frozen lips had said— Errands on which the willing feet had sped; The memory of my selfishness and pride, My hasty words, would all be put aside, And so I should be loved and mourned to-night. If I should die to-night, Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me, Recalling other days remorsefully. The eyes that chill me with averted glance Would look upon me as of yore, perchance, And soften in the old familiar way; For who would war with dumb, unconscious clay? So I might rest, forgiven of all to-night. O friends, I pray to-night, Keep not your kisses for my dead cold brow. The way is lonely; let me feel them now. Think gently of me; I am travel-worn, My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn. Forgive! O hearts estranged, forgive, I plead! When ceaseless bliss is mine I shall not need The tenderness for which I long to-night. —Belle Eugenia Smith.

We scatter seeds with careless hand And dream we ne'er shall see them more, But for a thousand years Their fruit appears In weeds that mar the land Or helpful store. The deeds we do, the words we say— Into still air they seem to fleet; We count them ever past; But they shall last— In the dread judgment they And we shall meet. I charge thee by the years gone by, For the love's sake of brethren dear, Keep thou the one true way, In work and play, Lest in that world their cry Of woe thou hear. —John Keble.

Still shines the light of holy lives Like star beams over doubt; Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives Some dark possession out. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

Then gently scan your brother man, Still gentler sister woman; Though they may gang a kennin' wrang To step aside is human: One point must still be greatly dark, The moving why they do it: And just as lamely can ye mark How far, perhaps, they rue it. Who made the heart, 'tis He alone Decidedly can try us; He knows each chord—its various tone, Each spring—its various bias; Then at the balance let's be mute, We never can adjust it; What's done we partly may compute, But know not what's resisted. —Robert Burns.

Couldst thou boast, O child of weakness, O'er the sons of wrong and strife, Were their strong temptations planted In thy path of life? He alone whose hand is bounding Human power and human will, Looking through each soul's surrounding, Knows its good or ill. Earnest words must needs be spoken When the warm heart bleeds or burns With its scorn of wrong, or pity For the wronged, by turns. But, by all thy nature's weakness, Hidden faults and follies known, Be thou, in rebuking evil, Conscious of thine own. Not the less shall stern-eyed Duty To thy lips her trumpet set, But with harsher blasts shall mingle Wailings of regret. So when thoughts of evil-doers Waken scorn or hatred move, Shall a mournful fellow-feeling Temper all with love. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

'Tis the Almighty's gracious plan, That man shall be the joy of man. —From the Scandinavian, tr. by Frederic Rowland Marvin.

Judge not; the workings of his brain And of his heart thou canst not see; What looks to thy dim eyes a stain In God's pure light may only be A scar—brought from some well-won field Where thou wouldst only faint and yield. The look, the air, that frets thy sight May be a token that, below, The soul has closed in deadly fight With some infernal fiery foe— Whose glance would scorch thy smiling grace And cast thee shuddering on thy face! The fall thou darest to despise— May be the angel's slackened hand Has suffered it, that he may rise And take a firmer, surer stand; Or, trusting less to earthly things, May henceforth learn to use his wings. And judge none lost; but wait and see With hopeful pity, not disdain, The depth of the abyss may be The measure of the height of pain, And love and glory that may raise This soul to God in after days. —Adelaide Anne Procter.

Think gently of the erring; Ye know not of the power With which the dark temptation came In some unguarded hour; Ye may not know how earnestly They struggled, or how well, Until the hour of weakness came And sadly thus they fell. Think gently of the erring; Oh, do not thou forget, However darkly stained by sin, He is thy brother yet; Heir of the self-same heritage, Child of the self-same God, He has but stumbled in the path Thou hast in weakness trod. Speak gently to the erring; For is it not enough That innocence and peace have gone, Without thy censure rough? It sure must be a weary lot, That sin-stained heart to bear, And those who share a happier fate Their chidings well may spare. Speak gently to the erring; Thou yet mayst lead them back, With holy words and tones of love, From misery's thorny track; Forget not thou hast often sinned, And sinful yet must be; Deal gently with the erring, then, As God has dealt with thee. —Julia A. Fletcher.

O God! whose thoughts are brightest light, Whose love runs always clear, To whose kind wisdom sinning souls Amidst their sins are dear, Sweeten my bitter-thoughted heart With charity like thine, Till self shall be the only spot On earth which does not shine. I often see in my own thoughts, When they lie nearest Thee, That the worst men I ever knew Were better men than me. He whom no praise can reach is aye Men's least attempts approving; Whom justice makes all-merciful Omniscience makes all-loving. How thou canst think so well of us Yet be the God thou art, Is darkness to my intellect, But sunshine to my heart. Yet habits linger in the soul; More grace, O Lord! more grace! More sweetness from thy loving heart! More sunshine from thy face! The discord is within, which jars So sadly in life's song; 'Tis we, not they, who are in fault, When others seem so wrong. 'Tis we who weigh upon ourselves; Self is the irksome weight; To those who can see straight themselves, All things look always straight. My God, with what surpassing love Thou lovest all on earth; How good the least good is to thee, How much each soul is worth! All bitterness is from ourselves; All sweetness is from thee; Sweet God! for evermore be thou Fountain and fire in me! —Frederick William Faber.

"Judge the people by their actions"—tis a rule you often get— "Judge the actions by their people" is a wiser maxim yet. Have I known you, brother, sister? Have I looked into your heart? Mingled with your thoughts my feelings, taken of your life my part? Through the warp of your convictions sent the shuttle of my thought Till the web became the Credo, for us both, of Should and Ought? Seen in thousand ways your nature, in all act and look and speech? By that large induction only I your law of being reach. Now I hear of this wrong action—what is that to you and me? Sin within you may have done it—fruit not nature to the tree. Foreign graft has come to bearing—mistletoe grown on your bough— If I ever really knew you, then, my friend, I know you now. So I say, "He never did it," or, "He did not so intend"; Or, "Some foreign power o'ercame him"—so I judge the action, friend. Let the mere outside observer note appearance as he can; We, more righteous judgment passing, test each action by its man.

—James Freeman Clarke.

If I knew you and you knew me, If both of us could clearly see, And with an inner sight divine The meaning of your heart and mine, I'm sure that we would differ less, And clasp our hands in friendliness; Our thoughts would pleasantly agree If I knew you and you knew me. —Nixon Waterman.

A little word in kindness spoken, A motion, or a tear, Has often healed the heart that's broken And made a friend sincere. A word, a look, has crushed to earth Full many a budding flower, Which, had a smile but owned its birth, Would bless life's darkest hour. Then deem it not an idle thing A pleasant word to speak; The face you wear, the thought you bring, A heart may heal or break. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

If we knew the cares and sorrows Crowded round our neighbor's way, If we knew the little losses, Sorely grievous, day by day, Would we then so often chide him For the lack of thrift and gain, Leaving on his heart a shadow Leaving on our hearts a stain? If we knew the clouds above us, Held by gentle blessings there, Would we turn away, all trembling, In our blind and weak despair? Would we shrink from little shadows Lying on the dewy grass While 'tis only birds of Eden Just in mercy flying past? Let us reach within our bosoms For the key to other lives, And with love to erring natures Cherish good that still survives; So that when our disrobed spirits Soar to realms of light again, We may say, "Dear Father, judge us As we judged our fellow men."

Time to me this truth hath taught, 'Tis a truth that's worth revealing: More offend from want of thought Than from want of feeling. If advice we would convey, There's a time we should convey it; If we've but a word to say, There's a time in which to say it.

Great Master! teach us how to hope in man: We lift our eyes upon his works and ways, And disappointment chills us as we gaze, Our dream of him so far the truth outran, So far his deeds are ever falling short. And then we fold our graceful hands and say, "The world is vulgar." Didst thou turn away, O Sacred Spirit, delicately wrought, Because the humble souls of Galilee Were tuned not to the music of thine own And chimed not to the pulsing undertone Which swelled Thy loving bosom like the sea? Shame thou our coldness, most benignant Friend, When we so daintily do condescend. —Martha Perry Howe.

That plenty but reproaches me Which leaves my neighbor bare. Not wholly glad my heart can be While his is bowed with care. If I go free, and sound, and stout, While his poor fetters clank, Unsated still, I'll still cry out, And plead with Whom I thank. Almighty, thou who Father be Of him, of me, of all, Draw us together, him and me, That, whichsoever fall, The other's hand may fail him not— The other's strength decline No task of succor that his lot May claim from son of thine. I would be fed. I would be clad. I would be housed and dry. But if so be my heart is sad— What benefit have I? Best he whose shoulders best endure The load that brings relief; And best shall be his joy secure Who shares that joy with grief. —Edward Sandford Martin.

Not in some cloistered cell Dost thou, Lord, bid me dwell My love to show, But 'mid the busy marts, Where men with burdened hearts Do come and go. Some tempted soul to cheer When breath of ill is near And foes annoy; The sinning to restrain, To ease the throb of pain— Be such my joy. Lord, make me quick to see Each task awaiting me, And quick to do; Oh, grant me strength, I pray, With lowly love each day, And purpose true, To go as Jesus went, Spending and being spent, Myself forgot; Supplying human needs By loving words and deeds— Oh, happy lot! —Robert M. Offord.

When thy heart with joy o'erflowing Sings a thankful prayer, In thy joy, O let thy brother With thee share. When the harvest sheaves ingathered Fill thy barns with store, To thy God and to thy brother Give the more. If thy soul with power uplifted Yearns for glorious deed, Give thy strength to serve thy brother In his need. Hast thou borne a secret sorrow In thy lonely breast? Take to thee thy sorrowing brother For a guest. Share with him thy bread of blessing, Sorrow's burden share; When thy heart enfolds a brother, God is there. —Theodore Chickering Williams.

Sweet-voiced Hope, thy fine discourse Foretold not half life's good to me: Thy painter, Fancy, hath not force To show how sweet it is to be! Thy witching dream And pictured scheme To match the fact still want the power: Thy promise brave— From birth to grave— Life's boon may beggar in an hour. "Ask and receive," 'tis sweetly said; Yet what to plead for know I not; For wish is wasted, hope o'ersped, And aye to thanks returns my thought. If I would pray, I've naught to say But this, that God may be God still; For him to live Is still to give, And sweeter than my wish, his will. O wealth of life beyond all bound! Eternity each moment given! What plummet may the Present sound Who promises a future heaven? Or glad or grieved, Oppressed, relieved, In blackest night or brightest day, Still pours the flood Of golden good, And more than heartful fills me aye. My wealth is common; I possess No petty province, but the whole. What's mine alone is mine far less Than treasure shared by every soul, Talk not of store, Millions or more— Of values which the purse may hold— But this divine! I own the mine Whose grains outweigh a planet's gold. I have a stake in every star, In every beam that fills the day; All hearts of men my coffers are, My ores arterial tides convey; The fields and skies And sweet replies Of thought to thought are my gold-dust, The oaks and brooks And speaking looks Of lovers' faith and friendship's trust. Life's youngest tides joy-brimming flow For him who lives above all years; Who all-immortal makes the Now, And is not ta'en in Time's arrears; His life's a hymn The seraphim Might stop to hear or help to sing, And to his soul The boundless whole Its bounty all doth daily bring. "All mine is thine," the sky-soul saith; "The wealth I am must then become Richer and richer, breath by breath— Immortal gain, immortal room!" And since all his Mine also is, Life's gift outruns my fancies far, And drowns the dream In larger stream, As morning drinks the morning star. —David Atwood Wasson.

How doth death speak of our beloved When it has laid them low, When it has set its hallowing touch On speechless lip and brow? It clothes their every gift and grace With radiance from the holiest place, With light as from an angel's face, Recalling with resistless force And tracing to their hidden source Deeds scarcely noticed in their course— This little loving fond device, That daily act of sacrifice, Of which too late we learned the price. Opening our weeping eyes to trace Simple unnoticed kindnesses, Forgotten tones of tenderness, Which evermore to us must be Sacred as hymns in infancy Learnt listening at a mother's knee. Thus doth death speak of our beloved When it has laid them low. Then let love antedate the work of death, And speak thus now. * * * * * * * How does death speak of our beloved When it has laid them low, When it has set its hallowing touch On speechless lip and brow? It sweeps their faults with heavy hand As sweeps the sea the trampled sand, Till scarce the faintest print is scanned. It shows how much the vexing deed Was but a generous nature's weed Or some choice virtue run to seed; How that small fretting fretfulness Was but love's overanxiousness, Which had not been had love been less; This failing at which we repined But the dim shade of day declined Which should have made us doubly kind. It takes each failing on our part And brands it in upon the heart With caustic power and cruel art. The small neglect that may have pained A giant stature will have gained When it can never be explained; The little service which had proved How tenderly we watched and loved, And those mute lips to smiles had moved; The little gift from out our store Which might have cheered some cheerless hour When they with earth's poor needs were poor. It shows our faults like fires at night; It sweeps their failings out of sight; It clothes their good in heavenly light. O Christ, our life, foredate the work of death And do this now; Thou, who art love, thus hallow our beloved; Not death, but Thou! —Elizabeth Rundle Charles.

God gives each man one life, like a lamp, then gives That lamp due measure of oil: Lamp lighted—hold high, wave wide, Its comfort for others to share!

—Muleykeh.

It is coming! it is coming! The day is just a-dawning When man shall be to fellow-man a helper and a brother; When the mansion, with its gilded hall, its tower and arch and awning, Shall be to hovel desolate a kind and foster-mother.

When the men who work for wages shall not toil from morn till even, With no vision of the sunlight, nor flowers, nor birds a-singing; When the men who hire the workers, blest with all the gifts of heaven, Shall the golden rule remember, its glad millennium bringing.

The time is coming when the man who cares not for another Shall be accounted as a stain upon a fair creation; Who lives to fill his coffers full, his better self to smother, As blight and mildew on the fame and glory of a nation.

The hours are growing shorter for the millions who are toiling, And the homes are growing better for the millions yet to be; And the poor shall learn the lesson, how that waste and sin are spoiling The fairest and the finest of a grand humanity.

It is coming! it is coming! and men's thoughts are growing deeper; They are giving of their millions as they never gave before; They are learning the new gospel, man must be his brother's keeper, And right, not might, shall triumph, and the selfish rule no more.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

To a darning-needle once exclaimed the kitchen sieve, "You've a hole right through your body, and I wonder how you live." But the needle (who was sharp) replied, "I too have wondered That you notice my one hole, when in you there are a hundred!"

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

The Master came one evening to the gate Of a fair city; it was growing late, And sending his disciples to buy food, He wandered forth intent on doing good, As was his wont. And in the market-place He saw a crowd, close gathered in one space, Gazing with eager eyes upon the ground, Jesus drew nearer, and thereon he found A noisome creature, a bedraggled wreck— A dead dog with a halter round his neck, And those who stood by mocked the object there, And one said, scoffing, "It pollutes the air!" Another, jeering, asked, "How long to-night Shall such a miscreant cur offend our sight?" "Look at his torn hide," sneered a Jewish wit, "You could not cut even a shoe from it," And turned away. "Behold his ears that bleed," A fourth chimed in, "an unclean wretch indeed!" "He hath been hanged for thieving," they all cried. And spurned the loathsome beast from side to side. Then Jesus, standing by them in the street, Looked on the poor, spent creature at his feet, And, bending o'er him, spake unto the men, "Pearls are not whiter than his teeth." And then The people at each other gazed, asking, "Who is this stranger pitying this vile thing?" Then one exclaimed, with awe-abated breath, "This surely is the Man of Nazareth; This must be Jesus, for none else but he Something to praise in a dead dog could see!" And, being ashamed, each scoffer bowed his head, And from the sight of Jesus turned and fled.

Vice is a monster of so frightful mien As, to be hated, needs but to be seen; Yet seen too oft, familiar with her face, We first endure, then pity, then embrace. —Alexander Pope.

What might be done if men were wise— What glorious deeds, my suffering brother, Would they unite In love and right, And cease their scorn of one another! Oppression's heart might be imbued With kindling drops of loving-kindness, And knowledge pour From shore to shore Light on the eyes of mental blindness. All slavery, warfare, lies, and wrongs, All vice and crime, might die together; And wine and corn To each man born Be free as warmth in summer weather. The meanest wretch that ever trod, The deepest sunk in guilt and sorrow, Might stand erect In self-respect, And share the teeming world to-morrow. What might be done? This might be done. And more than this, my suffering brother; More than the tongue E'er said or sung If men were wise and loved each other. —Charles Mackay.

If I could see A brother languishing in sore distress, And I should turn and leave him comfortless, When I might be A messenger of hope and happiness— How could I ask to have that I denied In my own hour of bitterness supplied? If I might share A brother's load along the dusty way, And I should turn and walk alone that day, How could I dare— When in the evening watch I kneel to pray— To ask for help to bear my pain and loss, If I had heeded not my brother's cross?

I said it in the meadow path, I say it on the mountain-stairs: The best things any mortal hath Are those which every mortal shares. The air we breathe—the sky—the breeze— The light without us and within— Life with its unlocked treasuries— God's riches, are for all to win. The grass is softer to my tread For rest it yields unnumbered feet; Sweeter to me the wild-rose red Because she makes the whole world sweet. Into your heavenly loneliness Ye welcomed me, O solemn peaks! And me in every guest you bless Who reverently your mystery seeks. And up the radiant peopled way That opens into worlds unknown It will be life's delight to say, "Heaven is not heaven for me alone." Rich through my brethren's poverty! Such wealth were hideous! I am blest Only in what they share with me, In what I share with all the rest. —Lucy Larcom.

I know not if 'twas wise or well To give all heathens up to hell— Hadrian—Aurelius—Socrates— And others wise and good as these; I know not if it is forbid, But this I know—Christ never did.

May every soul that touches mine— Be it the slightest contact—get therefrom some good, Some little grace, one kindly thought, One inspiration yet unfelt, one bit of courage For the darkening sky, one gleam of faith To brave the thickening ills of life, One glimpse of brighter skies beyond the gathering mists, To make this life worth while, And heaven a surer heritage.

O for a closer walk with man! Sweet fellowship of soul, Where each is to the other bound, Parts of one living whole. Our Father, God, help us to see That all in thee are one; O warm our hearts with thy pure love, Strong as your glorious sun. Pride, envy, selfishness will melt Beneath that kindling fire; Our brother's faults we scarce shall see, But good in all admire. No bitter cry of misery Shall ever pass unheard; But gentle sympathy spring forth In smile and strengthening word. And when our brother's voice shall call From lands beyond the sea, Our hearts in glad response will say, "Here, Lord, am I, send me." O Jesus Christ, thou who wast man, Grant us thy face to see; In thy light shall we understand What human life may be. Then daily with thy Spirit filled, According to thy word, New power shall flow through us to all, And draw men near our Lord. Thus will the deep desire be met With which our prayer began; A closer walk with Thee will mean A closer walk with man.

If any little word of mine may make a life the brighter, If any little song of mine may make a heart the lighter, God help me speak the little word, and take my bit of singing, And drop it in some lonely vale to set the echoes ringing. If any little love of mine may make a life the sweeter, If any little care of mine make other life completer, If any lift of mine may ease the burden of another, God give me love and care and strength to help my toiling brother.

Outwearied with the littleness and spite, The falsehood and the treachery of men, I cried, "Give me but justice!" thinking then I meekly craved a common boon which might Most easily be granted; soon the light Of deeper truth grew on my wondering ken, (Escaping baneful damps of stagnant fen), And then I saw that in my pride bedight I claimed from erring man the gift of Heaven— God's own great vested right; and I grew calm, With folded hands, like stone, to patience given, And pitying, of pure love distilling balm; And now I wait in quiet trust to be All known to God—and ask of men sweet charity. —Elizabeth Oakes Smith.

When wilt thou save the people, O God of mercy, when? Not kings alone, but nations? Not thrones and crowns, but men? Flowers of thy heart, O God, are they: Let them not pass, like weeds, away— Their heritage a sunless day. God save the people! Shall crime bring crime forever, Strength aiding still the strong? Is it thy will, O Father, That man shall toil for wrong? "No," say thy mountains, "No," thy skies; Man's clouded sun shall brightly rise, And songs ascend instead of sighs. God save the people! When wilt thou save the people? O God of mercy, when? The people, Lord, the people, Not thrones and crowns, but men? God save the people; thine they are, Thy children, as thine angels fair; From vice, oppression, and despair, God save the people! —Ebenezer Elliott.

Not in the solitude Alone may man commune with Heaven, or see Only in savage wood And sunny vale the present Deity; Or only hear his voice Where the winds whisper and the waves rejoice. Even here do I behold Thy steps, Almighty!—here, amidst the crowd Through the great city rolled With everlasting murmurs deep and loud— Choking the ways that wind 'Mongst the proud piles, the work of human kind. The golden sunshine comes From the round heaven, and on their dwellings lies And lights their inner homes; For them thou fill'st with air the unbounded skies And givest them the stores Of ocean, and the harvest of its shores. Thy spirit is around, Quickening the restless mass that sweeps along; And this eternal sound— Voices and footfalls of the numberless throng— Like the resounding sea, Or like the rainy tempest, speaks of Thee. And when the hour of rest Comes like a calm upon the mid-sea brine, Hushing its billowy breast— The quiet of that moment too is Thine It breathes of Him who keeps The vast and helpless city while it sleeps. —William Cullen Bryant.

No one is so accursed by fate, No one so utterly desolate, But some heart, though unknown, Responds unto his own. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Believe not each accusing tongue, As most weak people do; But still believe that story wrong Which ought not to be true. —Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

Where cross the crowded ways of life Where sound the cries of race and clan, Above the noise of selfish strife, We hear thy voice, O Son of man. In haunts of wretchedness and need, On shadowed thresholds dark with fears, From paths where hide the lures of greed We catch the vision of thy tears. From tender childhood's helplessness, From woman's grief, man's burdened toil, From famished souls, from sorrow's stress, Thy heart has never known recoil. The cup of water given for Thee Still holds the freshness of thy grace; Yet long these multitudes to see The sweet compassion of thy face. O Master, from the mountain side Make haste to heal these hearts of pain, Among these restless throngs abide, O tread the city's streets again, Till sons of men shall learn thy love And follow where thy feet have trod; Till glorious from thy heaven above Shall come the city of our God. —Frank Mason North.

Who seeks for heaven alone to save his soul May keep the path, but will not reach the goal; While he who walks in love may wander far, But God will bring him where the blessed are. —Henry van Dyke.

Persuasion, friend, comes not by toil or art, Hard study never made the matter clearer; 'Tis the live fountain in the preacher's heart Sends forth the streams that melt the ravished hearer. —Johann Wolfgang von Goethe.

If you have a friend worth loving, Love him. Yes, and let him know That you love him, ere life's evening Tinge his brow with sunset glow. Why should good words ne'er be said Of a friend—till he is dead? If you hear a song that thrills you, Sung by any child of song, Praise it. Do not let the singer Wait deserved praises long. Why should one who thrills your heart Lack the joy you may impart? If you hear a prayer that moves you By its humble, pleading tone, Join it. Do not let the seeker Bow before his God alone. Why should not thy brother share The strength of "two or three" in prayer? If your work is made more easy By a friendly, helping hand, Say so. Speak out brave and truly, Ere the darkness veil the land. Should a brother workman dear Falter for a word of cheer? Scatter thus your seeds of kindness All enriching as you go— Leave them. Trust the Harvest-Giver; He will make each seed to grow. So, until the happy end, Your life shall never lack a friend.

The smallest bark on life's tumultuous ocean Will leave a track behind forevermore; The lightest wave of influence, once in motion, Extends and widens to the eternal shore. We should be wary, then, who go before A myriad yet to be, and we should take Our bearings carefully where breakers roar And fearful tempests gather: one mistake May wreck unnumbered barks that follow in our wake. —Sarah Knowles Bolton.

If you have a word of cheer That may light the pathway drear, Of a brother pilgrim here, Let him know. Show him you appreciate What he does, and do not wait Till the heavy hand of fate Lays him low. If your heart contains a thought That will brighter make his lot, Then, in mercy, hide it not; Tell him so. Bide not till the end of all Carries him beyond recall When beside his sable pall, To avow Your affection and acclaim To do honor to his name And to place the wreath of fame On his brow. Rather speak to him to-day; For the things you have to say May assist him on his way: Tell him now. Life is hard enough, at best: But the love that is expressed Makes it seem a pathway blest To our feet; And the troubles that we share Seem the easier to bear, Smile upon your neighbor's care, As you greet. Rough and stony are our ways, Dark and dreary are our days; But another's love and praise Make them sweet. Wait not till your friend is dead Ere your compliments are said; For the spirit that has fled, If it know, Does not need to speed it on Our poor praise; where it has gone Love's eternal, golden dawn Is aglow. But unto our brother here That poor praise is very dear; If you've any word of cheer Tell him so. —J. A. Egerton.

So when a great man dies, For years beyond our ken The light he leaves behind him lies Upon the paths of men. —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

There once was a man who bore a grudge. Stoutly he bore it many a year. "Beware!" said the parson. He answered, "Fudge! Well it becomes me, never fear. "Men for this world, and saints for heaven; Too much of meekness shows a fool; My loaf shall rise with a livelier leaven; 'Give as you get,' is a good old rule." The longer he bore it, the more it grew, Grew his grudge, as he trudged along; Till in sight of a pearly gate he drew, And he heard within it a wondrous song. The shining porter said, "Walk in." He sought to do so; the gate was strait: Hard he struggled his way to win, The way was narrow, the grudge was great. He turned in haste to lay it down; He strove to tear it away—to cut— But it had fast to his heart strings grown, "O wait," he cried; but the door was shut. Through windows bright and clear he saw The blessed going with their Lord to sup. But Satan clapped on his grudge a claw; Hell opened her mouth and swallowed him up. —Sara Hammond Palfrey.

Man judges from a partial view, None ever yet his brother knew; The Eternal Eye that sees the whole May better read the darkened soul, And find, to outward sense denied, The flower upon its inward side. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

O brothers! are ye asking how The hills of happiness to find? Then know they lie beyond the vow— "God helping me, I will be kind." —Nixon Waterman.

Not to the man of dollars, Not to the man of deeds, Not unto craft and cunning, Not unto human creeds; Not to the one whose passion Is for the world's renown, Not in the form of fashion Cometh a blessing down. But to the one whose spirit Yearns for the great and good; Unto the one whose storehouse Yieldeth the hungry food; Unto the one who labors Fearless of foe or frown; Unto the kindly-hearted, Cometh a blessing down. —Mary Frances Tucker.

Both swords and guns are strong, no doubt, And so are tongue and pen, And so are sheaves of good bank notes, To sway the souls of men. But guns and swords and piles of gold, Though mighty in their sphere, Are sometimes feebler than a smile, And poorer than a tear. —Charles Mackay.

Enough to know that, through the winter's frost And summer's heat, no seed of truth is lost, And every duty pays at last its cost. —John Greenleaf Whittier.

A kindly act is a kernel sown That will grow to a goodly tree, Shedding its fruit when time is flown Down the gulf of Eternity. —John Boyle O'Reilly.

The kindly word unspoken is a sin— A sin that wraps itself in purest guise, And tells the heart that, doubting, looks within, That, not in speech, but thought, the virtue lies. —John Boyle O'Reilly.