It is not enough to win rights from a king, and write them down in a book: New men, new lights; and the fathers’ code the sons may never brook. What is liberty now were license then; their freedom our yoke would be; And each new decade must have new men to determine its liberty. Mankind is a marching army, with a broadening front the while. Shall it crowd its bulk on the farm-paths, or clear to the outward file? Its pioneers are the dreamers who heed neither tongue nor pen Of the human spiders whose silk is wove from the lives of toiling men.
Come, brothers, here to the burial! But weep not, rather rejoice For his fearless life and his fearless death; for his true, unequalled voice, Like a silver trumpet sounding the note of human right; For his brave heart always ready to enter the weak ones’ fight, For his soul unmoved by the mob’s wild shout or the social sneer’s disgrace, For his freeborn spirit, that drew no line between class or creed or race.
Come, workers! here was a teacher, and the lesson he taught was good: There are no classes or races, but one human brotherhood; There are no creeds to be outlawed, no colors of skin debarred; Mankind is one in its rights and wrongs,—one right, one hope, one guard. By his life he taught, by his death we learn the great reformer’s creed: The right to be free, and the hope to be just, and the guard against selfish greed. And richest of all are the unseen wreaths on his coffin-lid laid down By the toil-stained hands of workmen,—their sobs, their kiss, and their crown. John Boyle O’Reilly.
MALARIA.
Our baby lay in its mother’s arms, All sweet with its tiny dimpled charms; But little mouth and tongue were sore, And of its food ’twould take no more. The doctor hemmed, and shook his head. And looking wise, he gravely said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” Said grandmamma, “Dear me! that’s new; When I was young we called it ‘sprue.’”
Our urchin Tom, ne’er off his feet, One day his dinner could not eat; His head ached so, he was so ill, Poor mother’s heart with fear did fill. The doctor felt his hands and head, And looking wise, he gravely said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” Said grandmamma, “That can’t be so! He has been smoking, sir, I know.”
Our lady Maud, at seventeen— As bright a girl as e’er was seen— One day turned languid, white, and frail, And roses red did strangely pale. The doctor felt her pulse, and said, While wisely he did shake his head, “Malaria—it’s plainly seen— Three times a day give her quinine.” Said grandmamma, “That can’t be right! Why, my good sir, she danced all night.”
Our pride, our eldest, Harry dear, One night did act so strange and queer, That mother, frightened, panting, said, “Run for the doctor! he’ll be dead!” The doctor came, and shook his head, And, looking at him, grandly said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” “What stuff!” said grandmamma, “I’m thinking That good-for-nothing boy’s been drinking!”
The head of the house, forever well, One day fell ill, and, sad to tell, Could not arise, but loud did cry, “If this keeps on, I’d rather die!” The doctor came, stood by the bed, And, looking solemn, gravely said, “Malaria—’tis plainly seen— Three times a day give him quinine.” Growled grandmamma, “Oh! fiddle-dee-dee! He’s only bilious—seems to me.”