CHAPTER IV.

I’d sought the busy marts of men, The city’s fev’rish, ceaseless din, Where strife and vile rapaciousness Are steeped in crime and vaunted sin. The rage of commerce and the clash Of steel and iron works that fill The air with vibrant, rasping sound, And human voices harsh and shrill.

Machinery’s fierce and grinding roar, The shouts of lab’rer and artizan, As stroke on stroke with might and main They strive to lead the rushing van. Remorseless as the hand of fate Stands capital with sword in hand, To grind the toiling millions down To servile state through all the land.

A thousand vehicles that ply Along the hot and dusty ways; The rushing of a million feet; A universal hungry craze For wealth, and pomp, and pride, and power All heedless of the anguished cry Of weaker fellows trampled down, Unheeded, helpless, and to die.

In the arena packed and pent, The speculative gambler’s bower, Where stocks are fiercely bought and sold, And men are ruined in an hour: Hark! the frenzied, madden’d shout, Exultant or despairing cry; Triumphant ones go proudly forth, Or, ruined, creep away to die.

A few there are that win the way Through battle’s fierce and fiery flame; Their dauntless and intrepid souls Win up the dazzling heights of fame. A few that dwell in palaces, Afar removed from toil and strife, There idly dream the years away That bound their vain, luxurious life.

A few there are of noble heart That heed the orphan’s pleading cry, The widow’s want and helplessness, And to the rescue gladly fly. They come like sunshine from above, To light and cheer man’s lonely way; Their mission is of charity, To help his darkest doubtful day.

’Tis theirs to soothe the broken heart, To see the wicked wrong redrest, To lift the fallen up again, And give the homeless wanderers rest. ’Tis theirs to bear the dead away, To hear the last sad plaint and sigh, To teach the mourner patience still, And tell the suffering how to die.

’Tis theirs to point the narrow way That leadeth where there are no tears, No night, no sin, nor selfishness, Beyond life’s disappointing years. God sees and hears these noble souls That fight through every ill and pain; Giving their all, it shall be said, Their lives were not, were not in vain.

I mingled in the stern affray-- Ah! how I strove to win the prize Of wealth, position, and a name, By bold, successful enterprise. Oh, days of anxious thought and toil! Oh, nights of fev’rish restlessness! Either elated or deprest By hope’s uncertain, wearing stress.

And though I gained some stubborn days, And won the smile success attains, A cringing world I found would laud The potent power that wealth maintains. Aye, though I crowned the stubborn heights, I could not hold the fateful field, The combinations were too great; When all was lost I could but yield.

I fled far out along the way Beyond the city’s ceaseless din; I sought for nature’s quietude, Beyond its cruel haunts of sin. The arena knew my face no more; I longed for quiet and for rest; A tender peace stole o’er my heart As light was fading in the west.