Famished in his self-made desert, blinded by our purer day, Gropes in yet unblasted regions for his miserable prey;— Shall we guide his gory fingers where our helpless children play?

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched

crust,

Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 't is prosperous to be just;

Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands

aside,

Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,
And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes,—they were souls that stood alone,

While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone, Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam

incline

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme

design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not

back,

And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned

One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned

Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands,

On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots

burn,

While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.

'T is as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our father's graves, Worshippers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;—

Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?

Turn those tracks toward Past or Future, that make Plymouth Rock sublime?

They were men of present valor, stalwart old iconoclasts, Unconvinced by axe or gibbet that all virtue was the Past's;

But we make their truth our falsehood, thinking that hath made us free,

Hoarding it in mouldy parchments, while our tender spirits flee

The rude grasp of that great Impulse which drove them across the sea.

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,

Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altarfires;

Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to slay,

From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps

away

To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth;

They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth;

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be,

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,

Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted

key.

806

THE PIOUS EDITOR'S CREED

I Du believe in Freedom's cause,
Ez fur away ez Payris is;
I love to see her stick her claws
In them infarnal Phayrisees;
It 's wal enough agin a king
To dror resolves an' triggers,—
But libbaty 's a kind o' thing
Thet don't agree with niggers.

I du believe the people want
A tax on teas an' coffees,
Thet nothin' aint extravygunt,—
Purvidin' I 'm in office;

Fer I hev loved my country sence

My eye-teeth filled their sockets, An' Uncle Sam I reverence, Partic'larly his pockets.

I du believe in any plan
O' levyin' the taxes,
Ez long ez, like a lumberman,
I git jest wut I axes;

I go free-trade thru thick an' thin,
Because it kind o' rouses

The folks to vote,—an' keeps us in
Our quiet custom-houses.

I du believe it's wise an' good
To sen' out furrin missions,
Thet is, on sartin understood
An' orthydox conditions;—
I mean nine thousan' dolls, per ann.,
Nine thousan' more fer outfit,
An' me to recommend a man
The place 'ould jest about fit.

I du believe in special ways

O' prayin' an' convartin';

The bread comes back in many days,
An' buttered, tu, fer sartin;
I mean in preyin' till one busts
On wut the party chooses,
An' in convartin' public trusts
To very privit uses.

I du believe hard coin the stuff
Fer 'lectioneers to spout on;
The people 's oilers soft enough

To make hard money out on;
Dear Uncle Sam pervides fer his,
An' gives a good-sized junk to all,-
I don't care how hard money is,
Ez long ez mine 's paid punctooal.

I du believe with all my soul
In the gret Press's freedom,
To pint the people to the goal
An' in the traces lead 'em;
Palsied the arm thet forges yokes
At my fat contracts squintin',
An' withered be the nose thet pokes
Inter the gov'ment printin'!

I du believe thet I should give
Wut 's his'n unto Cæsar,

Fer it's by him I move an' live,

Frum him my bread an' cheese air;

I du believe thet all o' me

Doth bear his superscription,— Will, conscience, honor, honesty, An' things o' thet description.

I du believe in prayer an' praise
To him thet hez the grantin'
O' jobs,—in every thin' thet pays,
But most of all in CANTIN';

This doth my cup with marcies fill,
This lays all thought o' sin to rest,
I don't believe in princerple,

But oh, I du in interest.

I du believe in bein' this

Or thet, ez it may happen One way or 't other hendiest is To ketch the people nappin'; It aint by princerples nor men

My preudunt course is steadied,— I scent wich pays the best, an' then Go into it baldheaded.

I du believe thet holdin' slaves

Comes nat'ral to a Presidunt, Let 'lone the rowdedow it saves

To hev a wal-broke precedunt; Fer any office, small or gret,

I could n't ax with no face, 'uthout I'd ben, thru dry an' wet, Th' unrizzest kind o' doughface.

I du believe wutever trash

'll keep the people in blindness, Thet we the Mexicuns can thrash Right inter brotherly kindness, Thet bombshells, grape, an' powder 'n' ball Air good-will's strongest magnets,

Thet peace, to make it stick at all,

Must be druv in with bagnets.

In short, I firmly du believe

In Humbug generally,

Fer it's a thing thet I perceive
To hev a solid vally;

This heth my faithful shepherd ben,

In pasturs sweet heth led me,

An' this '11 keep the people green

To feed ez they hev fed me.