Like Moses, eyes so dim,
     All signs he could not spell;
    Yet he endured, as seeing Him
     Who is invisible.

    His life was under One
     “Who made and loveth all;”
    And when his mighty work was done,
     How grand his coronal!

* * * * *

Garfield.

    Of Garfield’s finished days,
     So fair and all too few,
    Destruction, which at noon-day strays,
     Could not the work undo.

    O martyr prostrate, calm,
     I learn anew that pain
    Achieves, as God’s subduing psalm,
     What else were all in vain!

    Like Samson in his death,
     With mightiest labor rife,
    The moments of thy halting breath
     Were grandest of thy life.

    And now, amid the gloom
     Which pierces mortal years,
    There shines a star above thy tomb
     To smile away our tears.

* * * * *

Not Too Near.

    O workers brave and true,
     Whose lives are full of song,
    I dare not take too near a view,
     Lest I should do you wrong.

    I only look to see
     The marks of sacrifice,
    The heraldry of sympathy,
     Which can alone suffice.

    For nothing else is great,
     However proudly won,
    Or has the light to indicate
     The will of God is done.

    Ah, who would judge what fire
     Will surely burn away! 
    And ask not, What doth God require
     At the Eternal Day?

* * * * *

“Stonewall” Jackson.

    God somehow owns the creeds
     That seem so much amiss,
    What time they bear heroic deeds
     Above analysis.

    How, in his burning zeal,
     Did Stonewall breast his fate,
    Converted to his country’s weal
     With fame beyond debate!

    Sincere and strong of heart,
     In very truth he thought
    His ensign signaled duty’s part;
     And as he thought he fought.

    And truth baptized in blood,
     As many a time before,
    Gave honor to his soldierhood,
    Though trailed the flag he bore.

Work Its Own Reward

      O worker with the Lord,
      To crown thee with success,
    Believe thy work its own reward,
      Let self be less and less.

      In all things be sincere,
      Afraid not of the light,
    A prophet of the Golden Year
      In simply doing right.

      And be content to serve,
      A little one of God,
    In loyalty without reserve,
      A hero armored, shod.

      Or this dear life of thine,
      Of every charm bereft,
    Will crumble in the fire divine,
      Naught, naught but ashes left.