When presses hard my load of care,

And other friends from me depart,

I want a friend my grief to share,

With faithful speech and loving heart.

I want a friend of noble mind,

Who loves me more than praise or pelf,

Reproves my faults with spirit kind,

And thinks of me as well as self—

A friend whose ear is ever closed

Against traducers' poison breath;

And, though in me be not disclosed

An equal love, yet loves till death—

A friend who knows my weakness well,

And ever seeks to calm my fears;

If words should fail the storm to quell,

Will soothe my fevered heart with tears—

A friend not moved by jealousy

Should I outrun him in life's race;

And though I doubt, still trusts in me

With loyal heart and cloudless face.

True friendship knows both joy and grief,

The sweetest pleasure, keenest pain;

Its sharpest pangs are ever brief,

Mere flitting clouds before the rain.

But soon the joy returns again

With bluer sky and brighter light;

The grief proves but a narrow glen

All full of flowers, though hid from sight.

And e'en in darkness we inhale

The fragrant odors love emits;

Friendship like this can never fail—

On love's strong throne its monarch sits.

True friendship is of greater worth

Than words, though they were solid gold.

To all the glittering gems of earth

I it prefer, a thousandfold.

One Friend I have who knows my heart,

And loves me with a changeless love;

I love Him, too—nor death can part

Us two, for we will love above.

A woman's love to His is faint;

No brother cleaves as close as He;

No seraph words could ever paint

The love this Friend now bears to me.

Our lives seem filled with things of little worth;

A thousand petty cares arise each day

Which bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth,

Reminding us that we have feet of clay;

Yet we will not from path of duty stray

If we amidst them all cleave to the right;

Nor great nor small are actions in His sight;

Through lowly vale He shows our feet the way.

Our early dreams may not be realized;

The roseate sky now proves quite commonplace;

The constellations we so highly prized

Have vanished all—nor left the slightest trace

Of former glory in its azure face,

But high o'er all beams out the polar star

To guide us safe through rock and sandy bar;

Life is complete and its cap-stone is grace.

True laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race,

Whose words have won the hearts of young and old;

So free from cant, and yet replete with grace,

Or prose or verse it glows like burnished gold;

Thy muse is ever loyal to the truth,

And those who know thee best forget thy youth.

Unbend thy bow and rest with us awhile;

Thy active mind requires a healthy brain;

Death's shadow has gone back upon the dial,

And thou art left a higher goal to gain;

The future will eclipse the brilliant past;

Fear not; thy ideal will be reached at last.

To do the grandest work one must needs be

Endowed by Nature for the master task;

Yea more, he must possess the light to see

Those mysteries which nature seems to mask,

And this can gain but in the royal way—

'Tis dread experience leads from gloom to-day.

The Master saw a struggling youth, and smiled,

Pleased with his work in main; but, knowing too

His latent power, if it could be beguiled

From hiding-place, much greater work would do,

He took His servant's hand and led the way

Through vale of sorrow up to brighter day.

By other path this height is ne'er attained,

Nor books nor schools its hidden wealth unveil.

Philosophy and art have treasures gained,

But in this quest they must forever fail—

Experience only can the gift impart,

Bring needed light and regulate the heart.

To solace those who grieve one must have felt

In his own heart the rending pangs of pain;

The heart that suffers not will never melt

At others' woes, though free from selfish stain;

What we have felt and seen we truly know,

And thus endowed, our tears for others flow.

So leave thy much-loved lyre awhile unstrung

Till health again invigorate thy frame;

With brain renewed, with vigorous heart and lung

Take up thy work once more, and greater fame—

A richer man by far than e'er before,

For thou hast treasure on the other shore.

The battleship its anchor weighs,

And belches forth its thunder;

Its commodore all classes praise,

And at his victories wonder;

And well they may—for braver man

Ne'er wielded sword or sabre;

But tell me, brother, if you can,

Who did the lowly labor.

Below the deck in engine-room,

As oilers and coal-heavers?

Amidst the smut and ghastly gloom,

Who worked the iron levers?

And thus it is in other lines;

Brave men are often hidden

"Below the deck," in shops and mines,

To higher plane unbidden.

The men on deck the praise receive,

But meagre thanks the others;

As honest men they seldom grieve,

And envy not their brothers;

A common cause they gladly serve,

Though in a lowly station,

From path of duty never swerve—

Loyal to God and nation.

For when the smoke has cleared away,

And din of battle ended,

On upper deck, in bright array,

By angel bands attended,

The whole ship's crew will then appear,

From high and lowly station,

And each the words "well done" shall hear,

'Midst shouts of acclamation.