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caravan—

       Comes sweet with music to thy wearied ear;

       Rise with its anthems to a holier sphere!

      Deal meekly, gently, with the hopes that guide

       The lowliest brother straying from thy side

       If right, they bid thee tremble for thine own;

       If wrong, the verdict is for God alone.

      What though the champions of thy faith esteem

       The sprinkled fountain or baptismal stream;

       Shall jealous passions in unseemly strife

       Cross their dark weapons o'er the waves of life?

      Let my free soul, expanding as it can,

       Leave to his scheme the thoughtful Puritan;

       But Calvin's dogma shall my lips deride?

       In that stern faith my angel Mary died;

       Or ask if mercy's milder creed can save,

       Sweet sister, risen from thy new-made grave?

      True, the harsh founders of thy church reviled

       That ancient faith, the trust of Erin's child;

       Must thou be raking in the crumbled past

       For racks and fagots in her teeth to cast?

       See from the ashes of Helvetia's pile

       The whitened skull of old Servetus smile!

       Round her young heart thy "Romish Upas" threw

       Its firm, deep fibres, strengthening as she grew;

       Thy sneering voice may call them "Popish tricks,"

       Her Latin prayers, her dangling crucifix,

       But De Profundis blessed her father's grave,

       That "idol" cross her dying mother gave!

       What if some angel looks with equal eyes

       On her and thee, the simple and the wise,

       Writes each dark fault against thy brighter creed,

       And drops a tear with every foolish bead!

       Grieve, as thou must, o'er history's reeking page;

       Blush for the wrongs that stain thy happier age;

       Strive with the wanderer from the better path,

       Bearing thy message meekly, not in wrath;

       Weep for the frail that err, the weak that fall,

       Have thine own faith—but hope and pray for all!

      Faith; Conscience; Love. A meaner task remains,

       And humbler thoughts must creep in lowlier strains.

       Shalt thou be honest? Ask the worldly schools,

       And all will tell thee knaves are busier fools;

       Prudent? Industrious? Let not modern pens

       Instruct "Poor Richard's" fellow-citizens.

      Be firm! One constant element in luck

       Is genuine solid old Teutonic pluck.

       See yon tall shaft; it felt the earthquake's thrill,

       Clung to its base, and greets the sunrise still.

      Stick to your aim: the mongrel's hold will slip,

       But only crowbars loose the bulldog's grip;

       Small as he looks, the jaw that never yields

       Drags down the bellowing monarch of the fields!

      Yet in opinions look not always back—

       Your wake is nothing, mind the coming track;

       Leave what you've done for what you have to do;

       Don't be "consistent," but be simply true.

      Don't catch the fidgets; you have found your place

       Just in the focus of a nervous race,

       Fretful to change and rabid to discuss,

       Full of excitements, always in a fuss.

       Think of the patriarchs; then compare as men

       These lean-cheeked maniacs of the tongue and pen!

       Run, if you like, but try to keep your breath;

       Work like a man, but don't be worked to death;

       And with new notions—let me change the rule—

       Don't strike the iron till it 's slightly cool.

      Choose well your set; our feeble nature seeks

       The aid of clubs, the countenance of cliques;

       And with this object settle first of all

       Your weight of metal and your size of ball.

       Track not the steps of such as hold you cheap,

       Too mean to prize, though good enough to keep;

       The "real, genuine, no-mistake Tom Thumbs"

       Are little people fed on great men's crumbs.

       Yet keep no followers of that hateful brood

       That basely mingles with its wholesome food

       The tumid reptile, which, the poet said,

       Doth wear a precious jewel in his head.

      If the wild filly, "Progress," thou wouldst ride,

       Have young companions ever at thy side;

       But wouldst thou stride the stanch old mare, "Success,"

       Go with thine elders, though they please thee less.

       Shun such as lounge through afternoons and eves,

       And on thy dial write, "Beware of thieves!"

       Felon of minutes, never taught to feel

       The worth of treasures which thy fingers steal,

       Pick my left pocket of its silver dime,

       But spare the right—it holds my golden time!

      Does praise delight thee? Choose some ultra side— A sure old recipe, and often tried; Be its apostle, congressman, or bard, Spokesman or jokesman, only drive it hard; But know the forfeit which thy choice abides, For on two wheels the poor reformer rides— One black with epithets the anti throws, One white with flattery painted by the pros.

      Though books on MANNERS are not out of print,

       An honest tongue may drop a harmless hint.

       Stop not, unthinking, every friend you meet,

       To spin your wordy fabric in the street;

       While you are emptying your colloquial pack,

       The fiend Lumbago jumps upon his back.

       Nor cloud his features with the unwelcome tale

       Of how he looks, if haply thin and pale;

       Health is a subject for his child, his wife,

       And the rude office that insures his life.

       Look in his face, to meet thy neighbor's soul,

       Not on his garments, to detect a hole;

       "How to observe" is what thy pages show,

       Pride of thy sex, Miss Harriet Martineau!

       Oh, what a precious book the one would be

       That taught observers what they 're NOT to see!

      I tell in verse—'t were better done in prose—

       One curious trick that everybody knows;

       Once form this habit, and it's very strange

       How long it sticks, how hard it is to change.

      

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