There is the smile of woman’s love,
  That potent, siren spell,
Which uplifts men to heaven above,
  Or lures them down to hell!

There is the vain, derisive smile,
  Of cynical conceit;
The drunken leer, the grimace vile,
  Of lives with crime replete.

There is the smile of vacancy,
  Expressionless, we find
On idiot physiognomy,
  The vacuum of a mind.

There is a smile, which more than tears
  Or language can express;
The grim disguise which anguish wears,
  The mask of dire distress

There is a smile of practiced art,
  More false than treason’s kiss;
But penetrate that dual heart,
  And hear the serpent’s hiss.

A smile, the visage shall embrace,
  When nature’s cup is full;
Behind the stern and frowning face
  There lies a grinning skull.

A Request.

When close by my bed the Death Angel shall stand
  And deliver his summons, at last;
When my brow feels the chill of his cold, clammy hand,
  And mortality’s struggles are past;
When my pain throbbing temples, with death sweat are cold,
  And the spirit its strivings shall cease,
As with muscular shrug, it relaxes its hold,
  And the suffering clay is at peace;

E’er my spirit shall plunge through the shadowy vale,
  My lips shall this wish have expressed,
That all which remains of mortality frail,
  In some fair enclosure may rest;
Where disorganized, this pale form shall sustain
  The fragrant and beautiful flowers,
And reproduce beauty, again and again,
  Through nature’s grand organic powers.

Battle Hymn.

Almighty Power!  Who through the past
  Our Nation’s course has safely led;
Behold again the sky o’ercast,
  Again is heard the martial tread! 
    Our stay in each contingency,
    Our Father’s God, we turn to thee!

For lo!  The bugle note of war
  Is wafted from a southern strand! 
O Lord of Battles! we implore
  The guidance of Thy mighty hand,
    While as of yore, the hero draws
    His sword in Freedom’s sacred cause!

And when at last the oaken wreath
  Shall crown afresh the victor’s brow;
And Peace the conquering sword resheath,
  Be with us then, as well as now! 
    Our stay in each contingency,
    In peace or war, we turn to Thee!

The Nations Peril.

Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey, Where wealth accumulates and men decay.  —­Goldsmith.

I fear the palace of the rich,
  I fear the hovel of the poor;
Though fortified by moat and ditch,
  The castle strong could not endure;
Nor can the squalid hovel be
  A source of strength, and those who cause
This widening discrepancy
  Infringe on God’s eternal laws.

The heritage of man, the earth,
  Was framed for homes, not vast estates;
A lowering scale of human worth
  Each generation demonstrates,
Which feels the landlord’s iron hand,
  And hopeless, plod with effort brave;
Who love no home can love no land;
  These own no home, until the grave.