What, though thou be not rich, or great; What, if of thy deeds some men shall prate; What, though thy dearest friends should blame, Or scandal weave around thy name. Walk in the light of day; thy steps shall leave Some traces by the way. Nor do thou grieve O’er thy past deeds. If thou would’st drain the cup To its last dregs of happiness, look up And labour ’gainst despair and doubt And help thy fellow man. Look up! Look out! For every noble deed thy heart shall swell With joy; for thou thyself within the well Of thine own heart dost hold the keys of Heaven or Hell. Endowed with knowledge thou must see His ways; though sometimes veiled they be. Then do not murmur at thy weary load, But sow the seeds of patience on thy road, And in the harvest of the sun and sod Perchance thou’ll lead a brother up to God. Be true unto thyself, so that thou can Seal with love’s seal, the brotherhood of man. ISODORE. Once upon a night so dreary I was seated all alone In my sanctum sad and weary, All my heart was turned to stone. And the rain fell, never ceasing, While the wind with angry roar Howled against the leaden casements, As it n’er had done before. And my soul was filled with sorrow For my lost and lonely bride; I had gained her, but to lose her, Isodore, my joy and pride. Ah! I felt so sorely wounded, I should see her nevermore, For pale death had swiftly borne her To that misty, silent shore. In her bridal robe we laid her Clasped her gems o’er filmy lace With her golden tresses streaming Round about her saintly face. So my thoughts went ever trending To my darling’s lonely grave, While the firelight threw its shadows And the tears my cheeks did lave. Sudden, came a thrill of terror-- As a long despairing moan Smote my ear, from out the casement, Where the elder tree had grown. Fearful, oped I wide the window, Where, with lantern gleaming red, Stood my dearest Isodora Or her spirit from the dead. Then she spoke in voice quite human, “’Tis your own, your Isodore;” Quickly I unbarred the portal As she prone sank to the floor. ’Twas no vision; she was mortal And her tale she slowly told; How the wicked sexton robbed her, As she lay in coffin cold. He had hacked her slender fingers To secure the rings so rare; She, from cataleptic slumber Woke, and saw his lantern there. Then the sexton ghastly gazing, Dropped his booty there and fled, Little thinking, he, in robbing, Gave me back my precious dead. Happy years have we together Spent, my Isodore and I; And no more I pensive ponder, Lonely when the night winds sigh. [Illustration: text decoration]