“But,” cries my friend, “the preacher, if he’s true, Must labor, not for self, but others’ good; And in proportion as the self’s forgot, And others cared for, does his conduct rise.” But he can not, if conscious, forget self, For everything he does is felt within; But deeds for others’ good a pleasure give; If done in pain to self, the pleasure’s more. To gain the pleasure, self is put to pain, Just as a vesication brings relief. If he refused to undergo the pain Remorse would double it. Among his flock Some one is sick; to visit him is right, And done, affords a pleasure. Sweeter far That pleasure, if he walks through snow and ice, At duty’s call! Sublime self-sacrifice, Of which men prate, is nothing more nor less Than base self-worship. Little pain endured T’ avoid a great; a smaller pleasure lost To gain a larger! All the preacher’s words, That burn or die upon the stolid ear, Are spoken from this motive, good to self. You stare; but it is true. Why does he preach? To save men’s souls?--Why does he try to save? Because he loves his fellow-men? Not so. His love for them but to the pleasure adds, Which duty done confers; but all his work Must be with reference to himself alone, Though cunning self the real motive hides, And leaves his broad philanthropy and love To claim the merit. Let a score of men, The blackest sinners, die. He knows it not, And feels no pang; but if he is informed, He suffers reflex pain. And if his charge, Remorseful tortures for unfaithfulness. And only is the state of souls to him Of interest, as they are known. When known, It is a source of pleasure or of pain Which all his labor is to gain or shun. “This difference then,” says one, “between men’s lives; Some live for present, some for future good. The sensual care for self on earth alone, The mystic cares for self beyond the grave.”