The husband who spends days and nights
In low resorts, mid brawls and fights,
In which his heart greatly delights,
But stops not to inquire,
If wife and child have needed care,
Or from his draughts he may not spare
The pittance they should justly share,
Is character I can't admire,
The millionaire who doth obtain
His wealth by brawn and muscle strain
Of those he poorly doth maintain
Through scanty meed and hire,
Who will not justly, freely give
A recompense whereby may live
In health, the man who makes him thrive
Is character I can't admire.
The man who feels no poignant ruth
At the dethronement of a truth,
That to old age from tender youth
Has felt no fervid ire
When hate and envy swayed the tongue,
And took no pride in checking wrong,
No matter where it may belong,
Is character I can't admire.
The man who lives for self alone,
The man whose truth and honor 've flown,
The man who hears a fellow groan
Or sees a soul expire,
And lifts no friendly hand to aid,
No sympathy of soul betrayed,
No fevered brow with balm allayed,
Are characters I can't admire.
ON BROOKLYN BRIDGE.
I stood upon the slender link
That joins two cities into one,
And saw from thence the storm-clouds drink
Their moisture from the sun.
I watched their lowering, frowning edge,
Girt round with silver band,
Saw castles tall and towering ledge
Assume their forms so grand.
I saw the marshalled hosts of heaven
Join for the mighty fray,
Their ranks by tempest-winds were driven
Along their dark highway.
High in the heavens the giant forms
Of chariots, horsemen, towers stand,
Whose home is ever 'mid the storms—
When chaos reigns, most grand.