To covet the prize, yet to shrink from the winning; To thirst for glory, yet fear to fight; Why what can it lead to at last but sinning, To mental languor and moral blight? Better the old slow way of striving, And counting small gains when the year is done, Than to use our force and our strength in contriving, And to grasp for pleasure we have not won. DISTRUST. Distrust that man who tells you to distrust: He takes the measure of his own small soul, And thinks the world no larger. He who prates Of human nature’s baseness and deceit Looks in the mirror of his heart, and sees His kind therein reflected. Or perchance The honeyed wine of life was turned to gall By sorrow’s hand, which brimmed his cup with tears, And made all things seem bitter to his taste. Give him compassion! But be not afraid Of nectared Love, or Friendship’s strengthening draught, Nor think a poison underlies their sweets. Look through true eyes--you will discover truth: Suspect suspicion, and doubt only doubt. ARTIST AND MAN. Take thy life better than thy work. Too oft Our artists spend their skill in rounding soft Fair curves upon their statues, while the rough And ragged edges of the unhewn stuff In their own natures startle and offend The eye of critic and the heart of friend. If in thy too brief day thou must neglect Thy labor or thy life, let men detect Flaws in thy work! while their most searching gaze Can fall on nothing which they may not praise In thy well chiseled character. The Man Should not be shadowed by the Artisan! MISCELLANEOUS. BABYLAND. Have you heard of the Valley of Babyland, The realm where the dear little darlings stay, Till the kind storks go, as all men know, And, oh, so tenderly bring them away? The paths are winding and past all finding, By all save the storks who understand The gates and the highways and the intricate byways That lead to Babyland. All over the Valley of Babyland Sweet flowers bloom in the soft green moss; And under the ferns fair, and under the plants there, Lie little heads like spools of floss. With a soothing number the river of slumber Flows o’er a bedway of silver sand; And angels are keeping watch o’er the sleeping Babes of Babyland. The path to the Valley of Babyland Only the kingly, kind storks know; If they fly over mountains, or wade through fountains. No man sees them come or go. But an angel maybe, who guards some baby, Or a fairy perhaps, with her magic wand, Brings them straightway to the wonderful gateway That leads to Babyland.