The world is Rome, and Fate is Nero,
    Disporting in the hour of doom. 
  God made us men; times make the hero—­
    But in that awful space of gloom
    I gave no thought but sorrow’s room. 
  All—­all was dim within that bower,
    What time the sun divorced the day;
    And all the shadows, glooming gray,
  Proclaimed the sadness of the hour.

  She could not speak—­no word was needed;
    Her look, half strength and half despair,
  Told me I had not vainly pleaded,
    That she would not ignore my prayer. 
    And so she turned and left me there,
  And as she went, so passed my bliss;
    She loved me, I could not mistake—­
    But for her own and my love’s sake,
  Her womanhood could rise to this!

  My wounded heart fled swift to cover,
    And life at times seemed very drear. 
  My brother proved an ardent lover—­
    What had so young a man to fear? 
    He wed Ione within the year. 
  No shadow clouds her tranquil brow,
    Men speak her husband’s name with pride,
    While she sits honored at his side—­
  She is—­she must be happy now!

  I doubt the course I took no longer,
    Since those I love seem satisfied. 
  The bond between them will grow stronger
    As they go forward side by side;
    Then will my pains be jusfied. 
  Their joy is mine, and that is best—­
    I am not totally bereft;
    For I have still the mem’ry left—­
  Love stopped with me—­a Royal Guest!

RELIGION

  I am no priest of crooks nor creeds,
  For human wants and human needs
  Are more to me than prophets’ deeds;
  And human tears and human cares
  Affect me more than human prayers.

  Go, cease your wail, lugubrious saint! 
  You fret high Heaven with your plaint. 
  Is this the “Christian’s joy” you paint? 
  Is this the Christian’s boasted bliss? 
  Avails your faith no more than this?

  Take up your arms, come out with me,
  Let Heav’n alone; humanity
  Needs more and Heaven less from thee. 
  With pity for mankind look ’round;
  Help them to rise—­and Heaven is found.

DEACON JONES’ GRIEVANCE

  I ‘ve been watchin’ of ’em, parson,
    An’ I ’m sorry fur to say
  ’At my mind is not contented
    With the loose an’ keerless way
  ’At the young folks treat the music;
    ‘T ain’t the proper sort o’ choir. 
  Then I don’t believe in Christuns
    A-singin’ hymns for hire.

  But I never would ‘a’ murmured
    An’ the matter might ‘a’ gone
  Ef it was n’t fur the antics
    ’At I’ve seen ’em kerry on;
  So I thought it was my dooty
    Fur to come to you an’ ask
  Ef you would n’t sort o’ gently
    Take them singin’ folks to task.