Earth's stablest things are shadows, And, in the life to come, Haply some chance-saved trifle May tell of this old home: As now sometimes we seem to find, In a dark crevice of the mind, Some relic, which, long pondered o'er, Hints faintly at a life before. AN INCIDENT IN A RAILROAD CAR. He spoke of Burns: men rude and rough Pressed round to hear the praise of one Whose heart was made of manly, simple stuff, As homespun as their own. And, when he read, they forward leaned, Drinking, with thirsty hearts and ears, His brook-like songs whom glory never weaned From humble smiles and tears. Slowly there grew a tender awe, Sun-like, o'er faces brown and hard, As if in him who read they felt and saw Some presence of the bard. It was a sight for sin and wrong And slavish tyranny to see, A sight to make our faith more pure and strong In high humanity. I thought, these men will carry hence Promptings their former life above, And something of a finer reverence For beauty, truth, and love. God scatters love on every side, Freely among his children all, And always hearts are lying open wide, Wherein some grains may fall. There is no wind but soweth seeds Of a more true and open life, Which burst, unlooked-for, into high-souled deeds, With wayside beauty rife. We find within these souls of ours Some wild germs of a higher birth, Which in the poet's tropic heart bear flowers Whose fragrance fills the earth. Within the hearts of all men lie These promises of wider bliss, Which blossom into hopes that cannot die, In sunny hours like this. All that hath been majestical In life or death, since time began, Is native in the simple heart of all, The angel heart of man. And thus, among the untaught poor, Great deeds and feelings find a home, That cast in shadow all the golden lore Of classic Greece and Rome. O, mighty brother-soul of man, Where'er thou art, in low or high, Thy skiey arches with exulting span O'er-roof infinity! All thoughts that mould the age begin Deep down within the primitive soul, And from the many slowly upward win To one who grasps the whole: In his wide brain the feeling deep That struggled on the many's tongue Swells to a tide of thought, whose surges leap O'er the weak thrones of wrong. All thought begins in feeling,--wide In the great mass its base is hid, And, narrowing up to thought, stands glorified, A moveless pyramid. Nor is he far astray who deems That every hope, which rises and grows broad In the world's heart, by ordered impulse streams From the great heart of God. God wills, man hopes: in common souls Hope is but vague and undefined, Till from the poet's tongue the message rolls A blessing to his kind.