As bullets smooth are farther shot, Because rough angles they have not, So gentle ways and loving speech Are sure the erring heart to reach, While jagged deeds and words unkind, Like pebbles rough, much friction find; They fall before they reach the goal, And seldom help the needy soul. To truth be loyal, but take a care That with true zeal _tact_ have a share. The lightning when it strikes the tree Runs with the grain, as oft you see; Those who at angling are adepts, Choose well their bait and guard their steps; So if you would the sinner gain, Bait well your hook, or mark the grain. TREAD SOFTLY In the courts of truth tread softly, Though your tread be firm and bold; Your steps may awaken echoes, Resounding through years untold. The trend of the age is onward, And you should not lag behind; If men's minds are bound with fetters, Perchance you may some unbind. Our creed, say you, needs revising, In line with the growth of light; Be sure you have made real progress Before you assume the right, By stroke of pen, to unsettle The faith of the long ago; For many who err in judgment Stand fast to the truth they know. You bring from the mine rare jewels, That you think the world should see; But, perhaps, their estimation With your own may not agree; They may lack discrimination, And their worth may not discern; So polish them at your leisure, And give the world time to learn. Before you dig up the old tree That sheltered in ages past The earth's noblest men and women From the fury of the blast, See that your sapling is rooted, And no borer at its base, And its boughs both strong and spreading, To cover an erring race. Bear down on the lever gently, Or the rock may be o'erturned! Or, perchance, your lever shattered, And little experience learned! Take time to adjust your fulcrum, Then thrust home your iron bar; Bear down and the rock is lifted, Is lifted without a jar. Your views are, perhaps, exotic-- Young shoots from a tropic brain, They need to be better rooted To endure the wind and rain; You may well admire the markings On each graceful stem and leaf, But if taken from the hot-house, They will surely come to grief. Before they have wholly perished They may please admiring eyes, The old be thrown on the dunghill, To receive your floral prize; They adorn the porch and window, And brighten the wayside bed, But we waken some summer morning To find our new treasures dead. 'Tis better to make haste slowly, Than to antedate your day; The farmer waits for the sunshine, To transmute the grass to hay. When the fields are ripe for harvest Fear neither the heat or rain, But thrust in your sharpened sickle, And gather the golden grain. "IT WAS MY FAULT"[2]