O Friend of all the friendless 'neath the sun,
Whose hand hath wiped away a thousand tears,
Whose fervent lips and clear strong brain have done
God's holy service, lo! these eighty years,—
How meet it seems thy grand and vigorous age
Should find beyond man's race fresh pangs to spare,
And for the wronged and tortured brutes engage
In yet fresh labors and ungrudging care!
Oh, tarry long amongst us! Live, we pray,
Hasten not yet to hear thy Lord's "Well done!"
Let this world still seem better while it may
Contain one soul like thine amid its throng.
Whilst thou art here our inmost hearts confess,
Truth spake the kingly seer of old who said,—
"Found in the way of God and righteousness,
A crown of glory is the hoary head."
Miss F. P. Cobbe.
SUFFERING.
Pain, terror, mortal agonies which scare
Thy heart in man, to brutes thou wilt not spare.
Are these less sad and real? Pain in man
Bears the high mission of the flail and fear;
In brutes 'tis purely piteous.
Henry Taylor.