Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide The lowliest brother straying from thy side If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own; If wrong, the verdict is for God alone. What though the champions of thy faith esteem The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream; Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life? Let my free soul, expanding as it can, Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan; But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride? In that stern faith my angel Mary died; Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save, Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave? True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child; Must thou be raking in the crumbled past For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast? See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile The whitened skull of old Servetus smile! Round her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew; Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks," Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix, But De Profundis blessed her father's grave, That "idol" cross her dying mother gave! What if some angel looks with equal eyes On her and thee, the simple and the wise, Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed, And drops a tear with every foolish bead! Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page; Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age; Strive with the wanderer from the better path, Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath; Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall, Have thine own faith,--but hope and pray for all! Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task remains, And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains. Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools, And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools; Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens. Be firm! One constant element in luck Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck. See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill, Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still. Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip, But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip; Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields! Yet in opinions look not always back,-- Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track; Leave what you've done for what you have to do; Don't be "consistent," but be simply true. Don't catch the fidgets; you have found your place Just in the focus of a nervous race, Fretful to change and rabid to discuss, Full of excitements, always in a fuss. Think of the patriarchs; then compare as men These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen! Run, if you like, but try to keep your breath; Work like a man, but don't be worked to death; And with new notions,--let me change the rule,-- Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly cool.