It is nothing to me, the merchant said, As over his ledger he bent his head; I’m busy to-day with tare and tret, And I have no time to fume and fret. It was something to him when over the wire A message came from a funeral pyre— A drunken conductor had wrecked a train, And his wife and child were among the slain. It is nothing to me, the voter said, The party’s loss is my greatest dread; Then gave his vote for the liquor trade, Though hearts were crushed and drunkards made. It was something to him in after life, When his daughter became a drunkard’s wife And her hungry children cried for bread, And trembled to hear their father’s tread. Is it nothing for us to idly sleep While the cohorts of death their vigils keep? To gather the young and thoughtless in, And grind in our midst a grist of sin? It is something, yes, all, for us to stand Clasping by faith our Saviour’s hand; To learn to labor, live and fight On the side of God and changeless light. VASHTI. She leaned her head upon her hand And heard the King’s decree— “My lords are feasting in my halls; Bid Vashti come to me. “I’ve shown the treasures of my house, My costly jewels rare, But with the glory of her eyes No rubies can compare. “Adorn’d and crown’d I’d have her come, With all her queenly grace, And, ’mid my lords and mighty men, Unveil her lovely face. “Each gem that sparkles in my crown, Or glitters on my throne, Grows poor and pale when she appears, My beautiful, my own!” All waiting stood the chamberlains To hear the Queen’s reply. They saw her cheek grow deathly pale, But light flash’d to her eye: “Go, tell the King,” she proudly said, “That I am Persia’s Queen, And by his crowds of merry men I never will be seen. “I’ll take the crown from off my head And tread it ’neath my feet, Before their rude and careless gaze My shrinking eyes shall meet. “A queen unveil’d before the crowd!— Upon each lip my name!— Why, Persia’s women all would blush And weep for Vashti’s shame!