Twelve years have passed since that ever-memorable night. Millions have become better men, and yet the pledge remains to exert its influence, and who can doubt that God directs its course?
’T is sending joy to the mourning, and many a wounded heart it heals. Is there a power that can exceed this? Is there another pledge that has effected as much good?
Let us, then, push on the car. Let our influence be such as will advance, and not retard, its progress. Let us do this, and ere long we may rejoice together, and earth hold a grand jubilee, and all men shall testify that the Pledge is the “hope of the fallen.”
There are moments in our life
When are hushed its sounds of strife;
When, from busy toil set free,
Mind goes back the past to see:
Memory, with its mighty powers,
Brings to view our childhood hours;
Once again we romp and play,
As we did in youth’s bright day;
And, with never-ceasing flow,
Come the hours of Long Ago.
Oft, when passions round us throng,
And our steps incline to wrong,
Memory brings a friend to view,
In each line and feature true;
Though he long hath left us here,
Then his presence seemeth near,
And with sweet, persuasive voice,
Leads us from an evil choice;—
Thus, when we astray would go,
Come restraints from Long Ago.
Oft, when troubled and perplexed,
Worn in heart and sorely vexed;
Almost sinking ’neath our load,
Famishing on life’s high road,—
Darkness, doubt, and dark despair
Leading us we know not where,—
How hath sweet remembrance caught
From the past some happy thought!
And, refreshed, we on would go,
Cheered with hopes from Long Ago.
What a store-house, filled with gems
Of more worth than diadems,
Each hath ’neath his own control,
From which to refresh his soul!
Let us, then, each action weigh,
Some good deed perform each day,
That in future we may find
Happy thoughts to bring to mind;
For, with ever ceaseless flow,
Thoughts will come from Long Ago.
DETERMINED TO BE RICH.
Rise up early, sit up
Be thou unto Avarice sold;
Watch thou well at Mammon’s gate,
Just to gain a little gold.
Crush thy brother neath thy feet,
Till each manly thought is flown;
Hear not, though he loud entreat,
Be thou deaf to every moan.
Wield the lash, and hush the cry,
Let thy conscience now be seared;
Pile thy glittering gems on high,
Till thy golden god is reared.
Then before its sparkling shrine
Bend the neck and bow the knee;
Victor thou, all wealth is thine,
Yet, what doth it profit thee?