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. [_From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book._] [MORE WAYS THAN ONE.] 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.