"Tell him who soon shall follow Where my tired feet have bled, He must be older, shrewder, Hard, cold, and selfish-bred-- "Or else like me be trampled Under the harsh world's heel. 'Tis weakness to be youthful; 'Tis death to love and feel." III Then saw I how the New Year Came like a scheming man, With icy eyes, his forehead Wrinkled by care and plan For trade and rule and profit. To him the fading child Looked up and cried, "Oh, brother!" But died even while it smiled. Down bent the harsh new-comer To lift with loving arm The wanderer mute and fallen; And lo! his eyes were warm; All changed he grew; the wrinkles Vanished: he, too, looked young-- As if that lost child's spirit Into his breast had sprung. So are those lives not wasted, Too frail to bear the fray. So Years may die, yet leave us Young hearts in a world grown gray. CHRISTENING To-day I saw a little, calm-eyed child,-- Where soft lights rippled and the shadows tarried Within a church's shelter arched and aisled,-- Peacefully wondering, to the altar carried; White-robed and sweet, in semblance of a flower; White as the daisies that adorned the chancel; Borne like a gift, the young wife's natural dower, Offered to God as her most precious hansel. Then ceased the music, and the little one Was silent, with the multitude assembled Hearkening; and when of Father and of Son He spoke, the pastor's deep voice broke and trembled. But she, the child, knew not the solemn words, And suddenly yielded to a troublous wailing, As helpless as the cry of frightened birds Whose untried wings for flight are unavailing. How much the same, I thought, with older folk! The blessing falls: we call it tribulation, And fancy that we wear a sorrow's yoke, Even at the moment of our consecration. Pure daisy-child! Whatever be the form Of dream or doctrine,--or of unbelieving,-- A hand may touch our heads, amid the storm Of grief and doubt, to bless beyond bereaving; A voice may sound, in measured, holy rite Of speech we know not, tho' its earnest meaning Be clear as dew, and sure as starry light Gathered from some far-off celestial gleaning. Wise is the ancient sacrament that blends This weakling cry of children in our churches With strength of prayer or anthem that ascends To Him who hearts of men and children searches; Since we are like the babe, who, soothed again, Within her mother's cradling arm lay nested, Bright as a new bud, now, refreshed by rain: And on her hair, it seemed, heaven's radiance rested. THANKSGIVING TURKEY Valleys lay in sunny vapor, And a radiance mild was shed From each tree that like a taper At a feast stood. Then we said, "Our feast, too, shall soon be spread, Of good Thanksgiving turkey."