SAINT ANTHONY THE REFORMER.
Reading edition
HIS TEMPTATION.
No fear lest praise should make us proud! We know how cheaply that is won; The idle homage of the crowd Is proof of tasks as idly done.
A surface-smile may pay the toil That follows still the conquering Right, With soft, white hands to dress the spoil That sunbrowned arms have clutched in fight.
Sing the sweet song of other days, Serenely placid, safely true, And o'er the present's parching ways Thy verse distils like evening dew.
But speak in words of living power,— They fall like drops of scalding rain That plashed before the burning shower swept o'er the cities of the plain!
Then scowling Hate turns deadly pale,— Then Passion's half-coiled adders spring, And, smitten through their leprous mail, Strike right and left in hope to sting.
If thou, unmoved by poisoning wrath, They feet on earth, they heart above, Canst walk in peace they kingly path, Unchanged in trust, unchilled in love,—
Too kind for bitter words to grieve, Too firm for clamor to dismay, When Faith forbids thee to believe, And Meekness calls to disobey,—
Ah, then beware of mortal pride! The smiling pride that calmly scorns Those foolish fingers, crimson dyed In laboring on thy crown of thorns!