Ever.  Count o’er the rosary of truth;
     And practice precepts which are proven wise,
     It matters not then what thou fearest.  Walk
     Boldly and wisely in that light thou hast;—­
     There is a hand above will help thee on. 
     I am an omnist, and believe in all
     Religions; fragments of one golden world
     To be relit yet, and take its place in heaven,
     Where is the whole, sole truth, in deity. 
     Meanwhile, his word, his law, writ soulwise here,
     Study; its truths love; practice its behests—­
     They will be with thee when all else have gone. 
     Mind, body, passion all wear out; not faith
     Nor truth.  Keep thy heart cool, or rule its heat
     To fixed ends; waste it not upon itself. 
     Not all the agony maybe of the damned
     Fused in one pang, vies with that earthquake throb
     Which wakens soul from life-waste, to let see
     The world rolled by for aye, and we must wait
     For our next chance the nigh eternity;
     Whether it be in heaven, or elsewhere.

     DREAMS

     FESTUS—­The dead of night:  earth seems but seeming;
     The soul seems but a something dreaming. 
     The bird is dreaming in its nest,
     Of song, and sky, and loved one’s breast;
     The lap-dog dreams, as round he lies,
     In moonshine, of his mistress’s eyes;
     The steed is dreaming, in his stall,
     Of one long breathless leap and fall;
     The hawk hath dreamed him thrice of wings
     Wide as the skies he may not cleave;
     But waking, feels them clipped, and clings
     Mad to the perch ’twere mad to leave: 
     The child is dreaming of its toys;
     The murderer, of calm home joys;
     The weak are dreaming endless fears;
     The proud of how their pride appears;
     The poor enthusiast who dies,
     Of his life-dreams the sacrifice,
     Sees, as enthusiast only can,
     The truth that made him more than man;
     And hears once more, in visioned trance,
     That voice commanding to advance,
     Where wealth is gained—­love, wisdom won,
     Or deeds of danger dared and done. 
     The mother dreameth of her child;
     The maid of him who hath beguiled;
     The youth of her he loves too well;
     The good of God; the ill of hell;
     Who live of death; of life who die;
     The dead of immortality. 
     The earth is dreaming back her youth;
     Hell never dreams, for woe is truth;
     And heaven is dreaming o’er her prime,
     Long ere the morning stars of time;
     And dream of heaven alone can I,
     My lovely one, when thou art nigh.

     CHORUS OF THE SAVED

     From the Conclusion