Co-workers, yet from varied fields, We share this restful nooning; The Quaker with the Baptist here Believes in close communing. Forgive, dear saint, the playful tone, Too light for thy deserving; Thanks for thy generous faith in man, Thy trust in God unswerving. Still echo in the hearts of men The words that thou hast spoken; No forge of hell can weld again The fetters thou hast broken. The pilgrim needs a pass no more From Roman or Genevan; Thought-free, no ghostly tollman keeps Henceforth the road to Heaven! CHICAGO The great fire at Chicago was on 8-10 October, 1871. Men said at vespers: "All is well!" In one wild night the city fell; Fell shrines of prayer and marts of gain Before the fiery hurricane. On threescore spires had sunset shone, Where ghastly sunrise looked on none. Men clasped each other's hands, and said "The City of the West is dead!" Brave hearts who fought, in slow retreat, The fiends of fire from street to street, Turned, powerless, to the blinding glare, The dumb defiance of despair. A sudden impulse thrilled each wire That signalled round that sea of fire; Swift words of cheer, warm heart-throbs came; In tears of pity died the flame! From East, from West, from South and North, The messages of hope shot forth, And, underneath the severing wave, The world, full-handed, reached to save. Fair seemed the old; but fairer still The new, the dreary void shall fill With dearer homes than those o'erthrown, For love shall lay each corner-stone. Rise, stricken city! from thee throw The ashen sackcloth of thy woe; And build, as to Amphion's strain, To songs of cheer thy walls again! How shrivelled in thy hot distress The primal sin of selfishness! How instant rose, to take thy part, The angel in the human heart! Ah! not in vain the flames that tossed Above thy dreadful holocaust; The Christ again has preached through thee The Gospel of Humanity! Then lift once more thy towers on high, And fret with spires the western sky, To tell that God is yet with us, And love is still miraculous! 1871. KINSMAN. Died at the Island of Panay (Philippine group), aged nineteen years. Where ceaseless Spring her garland twines, As sweetly shall the loved one rest, As if beneath the whispering pines And maple shadows of the West. Ye mourn, O hearts of home! for him, But, haply, mourn ye not alone; For him shall far-off eyes be dim, And pity speak in tongues unknown. There needs no graven line to give The story of his blameless youth; All hearts shall throb intuitive, And nature guess the simple truth.