In this bright world of ours God placed some humble ones With loving hearts, o’erwelling with sweet tenderness; They soothe the wounds of war, they cheer earth’s toiling sons And where grief broods these faithful ones are there to bless; And e’en when fiends come forth with pestilential breath To pour their reeking poisons on the stagnant air, Forgetting self, they wrestle long with Death, And, with devotion’s strength, the black-winged demon, dare. Tho’ humble these, their elder Brother sits enthroned At God’s right hand; His golden words, impressive, deep, Still speak to us in sweet monition, gentle toned, “_If ye love me feed my lambs,—aye feed my sheep_.” O, many sheep have need of thee. Go feed them “In His Name,” Or seek that shelterless, that lone one that has strayed, Nor deem thy labor lost because, unknown to fame, For whoso lifts the cup, by which there’s _one_ soul’s thirst allayed, The same shall eat of hidden manna. He is blest of God. Tho’, but faintly we can echo the loving Shepherd’s call, We’ll find in Duty’s obscure ways, His sweetest blessings fall— In these same, lowly paths, earth’s sainted ones have trod. It may be grand to tread Olympian heights and breathe Ambrosial airs,—to win high praise ’mong those whose souls Are lit with Heaven’s fire; but sweeter far to wreathe A simple worded song, whose swelling music rolls A tidal wave of feeling, thrilling into life A long chained serfdom. Greater mastery of the art Is his, who lifts to light, from savagery and strife, Earth’s darkened isles—whose pen can touch the world’s great heart With philanthropic fire,—whose verse has, throbbing thro’ the whole, In sympathy with man, a loving, human soul. Love’s Riches. Rich blessings are scattered around us— Why heedlessly trample them down And ask for the millionaire’s coffers, Or sigh for a kingdom and crown? We’ve ever the sunshine of loving, Unmixed with the drosses of gold— Its pleasures are not in wealth’s giving Or e’en in its power to withhold. The jewels, whose splendors we covet, Gain much of their sparkle and glow From the flutter and tumult of bosoms Where heart-aches are throbbing below; In palaces, often, is hidden A skeleton presence of dread, That quenches the flame on Love’s altar While hope in the darkness lies dead. A queen may be rich in dominions, Have crown and a scepter and throne, Yet all of the riches of loving To her be forever unknown; Far greater the kingdom for woman Where love is the power—her throne In a heart of unswerving devotion, Its measureless realms her own.