Virtue.

[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]

OCTOBER 1, 18 - .

        Wind in the south-west; weather fit to stay;
        A sweet, old-fashioned, Indian-summer day -
        When Heaven and Earth both seem to look at you
        Through hair of gold and misty eyes of blue.
        My wife said, as we talked of it together,
        It seemed as if some of our old farm weather
        Had got tired of the sober hills of brown,
        Hitched up a cloud, and driven into town!

        We went to church, and heard a sermon preached,
        Which all the way from Earth to Heaven reached,
        And lifted us up toward the town divine,
        Till we could almost see the steeples shine,
        And hear the mighty chariots as they rolled
        Along the massive turnpikes made of gold.
        We had some music, so sweet-lipped and true
        It made me think of every flower I knew;
        And when, with benediction, the old pastor
        Said "Good-bye" for himself, but not his master,
        It put my resolution to the rack,
        To head my poor old tears, and drive them back!

        We tried to come straight out, as Christians should,
        And bring away all of it that we could;
        But there were certain persons there to-day,
        Who, after church was over, clogged the way,
        And, standing 'round, with worldly nods and smiles,
        Held a week-day reception in the aisles.
        Now, when one's mind falls in celestial frame,
        He wants to get home safely with the same;
        And hates through jostling gossipers to walk,
        And stumble 'gainst the smallest kinds of talk,
        Intended, by some power, his mind to bring
        Down out of Heaven to every worldly thing -
        From office, and good methods to ensure it,
        To rheumatism, and proper means to cure it.



[From Arthur Selwyn's Note-book.]

        These are the spires that were gleaming
        All through my juvenile dreaming;
        Here the high belfries are singing:
        Gold invitations they're winging,
        Asking man through the charmed portal,
        Where he is once more immortal;
        Where he may hide from his cares,
        Under a shelter of prayers.
        Why do these halls, high and broad,
        Under the same constant God,
        Vary in structure and style -
        Differ, from chancel to aisle?
        Why forms and creeds so diverse?
        Why is my blessing your curse?
        Pondering here on the street,
        This is one reason I meet:

        Man's brain is devious and strange -
        Differs, in form and in range;
        So that God's fervid love-sun,
        Falling the same on each one,
        Differs in form and in hue,
        (Not the less precious or true)!
        Body and brain and heart -
        Temple of infinite art -
        You had no power to control
        Hues of your windows of soul!



[From Farmer Harrington's Calendar.]

OCTOBER 5, 18 - .

        Sweet virtue, virtue, virtue! - what a start
        You've got here in this city's feverish heart!
        There isn't a thing to do that's square and right,
        But some one's here to teach it, day and night;
        No soothing balm soul may from soul demand,
        But some one has it ready to his hand!

        And then the churches - thick and rich of yield,
        As corn-shocks in a new-made prairie field,
        Where any one the golden fruit can find
        All ready cooked to suit his heart and mind;
        Great brick-and-mortar prayers! that never cease,
        And costing fifty good-sized farms apiece
        (Much too expensive, it might well be said,
        If bodies only need be clothed and fed).

        And then the missions - regular district schools,
        Where transient men are taught eternal rules;
        Then the Salvation Army girls and boys,
        Who season their religion up with noise,
        And, when they get to Heaven, won't have the power
        To help keep silent even half an hour;
        But who take ragged wretches every day,
        Haul them into the straight and narrow way,
        Strip them of vain conceit soon as they show it,
        And get them saved - almost before they know it!
        It's something good to make these people good,
        Who never go to church, and never would!

        God bless each woman, man, and child, I say,
        That leads His creatures in the heavenly way,
        Whether they work by still, old-fashioned means,
        Or march with drums and flags and tambourines!

        Then there's those men who've crept and crawled as low
        As even Satan cared to have them go;
        Have marched through strong iron doors in striped ranks,
        Have toiled where convict labor whirls and clanks,
        Have made hard beds in cramped and lonely cells,
        Have sinned their way through several different hells;
        Whose lives have been so terribly amiss
        To ever find worse worlds than they've made this;
        Then groped out into Virtue's bath and sun,
        And been washed up as clean as any one,
        And warmed up with sweet sunlight from above;
        Till they themselves start off on deeds of love,
        And say to men with scarred and crime-flushed brow,
        "I've been as bad, or worse, than you are now."
        Whereat the wretch says, with dull, shadowy bliss,
        "What! can there be some square way out of this?"
        And maybe brings to pass, through Virtue's schemes,
        Some of his poor old mother's fondest dreams!

        Oh you who shout or sing or chant or read -
        Whatever be your name or style or creed -
        If any one on earth a plan has got
        (Whether it's half as good as yours or not)
        To find a gate into the narrow way,
        And let in others that have gone astray -
        If there's a single chance to mortals given
        By which to slip poor mortals into Heaven,
        For Heaven's sake do not frown in righteous wrath,
        Or throw a scornful word into their path!
        But interfere with help in their affairs,
        And push them with your money and your prayers!
        For Pain is Pain, and God to see it loath,
        In this strange world and in the next one, both;
        And he who saves his fellow-men from pain,
        Is God's hired man, and does not toil in vain?
        But I'm reminded, by the bell for dinner,
        That I'm no preacher, but a poor old sinner,
        Unable even to follow my own view,
        Much less to counsel others how to do.
        I can't even eat - when I come right down to it,
        Without a bell to tell me when to do it.
        So I will cork my sermon, snub my muse,
        And go down-stairs with Wife, and learn the news.