Who lives for self alone should be
Placed in some lonely, hollow tree,
And left to toad and bat and owl—
To creatures man considers foul—
Where he shall be perpetual prey
For frightful ogres night and day.
A narrow soul that lives for self,
Should stand on some old musty shelf,
Where spiders, rats, and vermin throng,
And listen only to the song
Of filing saw and creaky mill,
And owlet's hoot and whip-poor-will.
Who lives for self is not afraid
Of meanest thing God ever made,
For he himself is that same thing;
Though peasant, plebian, or king,
He thwarts the purpose of God's plan,
He lacks the impulse of a man.
No soul enwrapped within itself,
Or dwarfed by pride, or love of pelf,
Can serve its Maker or mankind
As nobly as was erst designed
By the Great Architect above,
Whose being is Unselfish Love.
RETROSPECTION.
I sit when the shadows are stealing
The light of departing day,
And think of the scenes and pleasures
I enjoyed in my childhood's play.
I can picture them all so plainly,
They seemed not a day gone by,
I recall the fields and garden,
The lake and the clear blue sky.
I can see the bright water flowing
At the foot of the sloping hill,
The dam that impeded its progress,
The toy-wheel of water-mill.
I can trace every line and feature
Of trees and the shadows they cast,
The lanes, the rocks, and orchards,
That on journey to school were past.