Only scorn from women. 
    Only hate from men,
  Only remorse to whisper
    Of a life that might have been.

  Once they were little children. 
    And perhaps their unstained feet
  Were led by a gentle mother
    Toward the golden street;

  Therefore, if in life’s forest
    They since have lost their way,
  For the sake of her who loved them,
    God pity them! still I say.

  O mothers gone to heaven! 
    With earnest heart I ask
  That your eyes may not look earthward
    On the failure of your task.

  For even in those mansions
    The choking tears would rise,
  Though the fairest hand in heaven
    Would wipe them from your eyes!

  And you, who judge so harshly,
    Are you sure the stumbling-stone
  That tripped the feet of others
    Might not have bruised your own?

  Are you sure the sad-faced angel
    Who writes our errors down
  Will ascribe to you more honor
    Than him on whom you frown?

  Or, if a steadier purpose
    Unto your life is given;
  A stronger will to conquer,
    A smoother path to heaven;

  If, when temptations meet you,
    You crush them with a smile;
  If you can chain pale passion
    And keep your lips from guile;

  Then bless the hand that crowned you,
    Remembering, as you go,
  ’T was not your own endeavor
    That shaped your nature so;

  And sneer not at the weakness
    Which made a brother fall,
  For the hand that lifts the fallen,
    God loves the best of all!

  And pray for the wretched prisoners
    All over the land to-day,
  That a holy hand in pity
    May wipe their guilt away.

MAY RILEY SMITH.

* * * * *

CONSCIENCE AND REMORSE.

  “Good-bye,” I said to my Conscience—­
    “Good-bye for aye and aye;”
  And I put her hands off harshly,
    And turned my face away: 
  And Conscience, smitten sorely,
    Returned not from that day.

  But a time came when my spirit
    Grew weary of its pace: 
  And I cried, “Come back, my Conscience,
    I long to see thy face;”
  But Conscience cried, “I cannot,—­
    Remorse sits in my place.”

PAUL LAWRENCE DUNBAR.

* * * * *

FOUND WANTING.

  Belshazzar had a letter,—­
  He never had but one;
  Belshazzar’s correspondent
  Concluded and begun
  In that immortal copy
  The conscience of us all
  Can read without its glasses
  On revelation’s wall.

EMILY DICKINSON.

* * * * *

DALLYING WITH TEMPTATION.

    FROM THE FIRST PART OF “WALLENSTEIN,” ACT III.  SC. 4.