I think few persons have a greater disgust for plagiarism than myself.  If I had even suspected that the idea in question was borrowed,—­I should have disclaimed originality, or mentioned the coincidence, as I once did in a case where I had happened to hit on an idea of Swift’s.—­But what shall I do about these verses I was going to read you?  I am afraid that half mankind would accuse me of stealing their thoughts, if I printed them.  I am convinced that several of you, especially if you are getting a little on in life, will recognize some of these sentiments as having passed through your consciousness at some time.  I can’t help it,—­it is too late now.  The verses are written, and you must have them.  Listen, then, and you shall hear

WHAT WE ALL THINK.

  That age was older once than now,
    In spite of locks untimely shed,
  Or silvered on the youthful brow;
    That babes make love and children wed.

  That sunshine had a heavenly glow,
    Which faded with those “good old days,”
  When winters came with deeper snow,
    And autumns with a softer haze.

  That—­mother, sister, wife, or child—­
    The “best of women” each has known. 
  Were schoolboys ever half so wild? 
    How young the grandpapas have grown!

  That but for this our souls were free,
    And but for that our lives were blest;
  That in some season yet to be
    Our cares will leave us time to rest.

  Whene’er we groan with ache or pain,
    Some common ailment of the race,—­
  Though doctors think the matter plain,—­
    That ours is “a peculiar case.”

  That when like babes with fingers burned
    We count one bitter maxim more,
  Our lesson all the world has learned,
    And men are wiser than before.

  That when we sob o’er fancied woes,
    The angels hovering overhead
  Count every pitying drop that flows
    And love us for the tears we shed.

  That when we stand with tearless eye
    And turn the beggar from our door,
  They still approve us when we sigh,
    “Ah, had I but one thousand more!”

  That weakness smoothed the path of sin,
    In half the slips our youth has known;
  And whatsoe’er its blame has been,
    That Mercy flowers on faults outgrown.

  Though temples crowd the crumbled brink
    O’erhanging truth’s eternal flow,
  Their tablets bold with what we think,
    Their echoes dumb to what we know;

  That one unquestioned text we read,
    All doubt beyond, all fear above,
  Nor crackling pile nor cursing creed
    Can burn or blot it:  GOD is LOVE!

* * * * *

SANDALPHON.

  Have you read in the Talmud of old,
  In the legends the Rabbins have told
    Of the limitless realms of the air,
  Have you read it,—­the marvellous story
    Of Sandalphon, the Angel of Glory,
    Sandalphon, the Angel of Prayer?