Some men there are who stand so straight,

So equipoised, that others' fate

Seems to depend on their behest;

And useless all our every quest

To gain perfection or renown,

Unless we touch the flowing gown

Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall

Within themselves, if fall at all.

Others are not as straight as these,

But more like rough and gnarled trees;

But little beauty they display;

Shadows they cast across the way;

And from them men with scorning turn,

Or, if they speak, their accents burn

Like capsicum on chafed skin,

And leave a smarting wound within.

Once noble men, when turned aside

By fleshly lust or sinful pride,

Each one becomes a broken bell

On which the angry fiends of hell

Ring out their discord, harsh and loud,

As if with demon powers endowed.

Colossal once through grace they were;

Colossal still, though cleft and bare.

On northern rocks is often seen

The impress of some southern sheen,

The brightness of a warmer bloom,

Unknown to winter's frost and gloom.

The fossil flower of epoch fair

Has left its lasting impress there.

So in some men whose hearts are cold

You find a trace of days of old.

While we deplore the Arctic chill,

The frigid heart, the ice-bound will,

We must admire the fossil trace,

Still seen, of early days of grace.

Hiding from sight as best we can

The traces of the fallen man,

We feast our eyes upon the fair,

Though fossil, lines that linger there.

How to restore is our concern,

As we o'er their declensions mourn.

Can such dire ruin be repaired?

Only if God's strong arm be bared.

But we must do a brother's part,

And try to thaw the frozen heart;

Not by the fire of wrath above,

But by the melting coals of love.

As bullets smooth are farther shot,

Because rough angles they have not,

So gentle ways and loving speech

Are sure the erring heart to reach,

While jagged deeds and words unkind,

Like pebbles rough, much friction find;

They fall before they reach the goal,

And seldom help the needy soul.

To truth be loyal, but take a care

That with true zeal tact have a share.

The lightning when it strikes the tree

Runs with the grain, as oft you see;

Those who at angling are adepts,

Choose well their bait and guard their steps;

So if you would the sinner gain,

Bait well your hook, or mark the grain.

In the courts of truth tread softly,

Though your tread be firm and bold;

Your steps may awaken echoes,

Resounding through years untold.

The trend of the age is onward,

And you should not lag behind;

If men's minds are bound with fetters,

Perchance you may some unbind.

Our creed, say you, needs revising,

In line with the growth of light;

Be sure you have made real progress

Before you assume the right,

By stroke of pen, to unsettle

The faith of the long ago;

For many who err in judgment

Stand fast to the truth they know.

You bring from the mine rare jewels,

That you think the world should see;

But, perhaps, their estimation

With your own may not agree;

They may lack discrimination,

And their worth may not discern;

So polish them at your leisure,

And give the world time to learn.

Before you dig up the old tree

That sheltered in ages past

The earth's noblest men and women

From the fury of the blast,

See that your sapling is rooted,

And no borer at its base,

And its boughs both strong and spreading,

To cover an erring race.

Bear down on the lever gently,

Or the rock may be o'erturned!

Or, perchance, your lever shattered,

And little experience learned!

Take time to adjust your fulcrum,

Then thrust home your iron bar;

Bear down and the rock is lifted,

Is lifted without a jar.

Your views are, perhaps, exotic—

Young shoots from a tropic brain,

They need to be better rooted

To endure the wind and rain;

You may well admire the markings

On each graceful stem and leaf,

But if taken from the hot-house,

They will surely come to grief.

Before they have wholly perished

They may please admiring eyes,

The old be thrown on the dunghill,

To receive your floral prize;

They adorn the porch and window,

And brighten the wayside bed,

But we waken some summer morning

To find our new treasures dead.

'Tis better to make haste slowly,

Than to antedate your day;

The farmer waits for the sunshine,

To transmute the grass to hay.

When the fields are ripe for harvest

Fear neither the heat or rain,

But thrust in your sharpened sickle,

And gather the golden grain.