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"None escape the common doom;

All are equal in the tomb.
God avenges thus the poor-
This their solace evermore.

"Read upon this tomb: Here lies-'
There My Lord-a hard one-dies,
And My Lady in her pride
Crumbles by his crumbling side.

"Thus among the tombs I tread,
I alive, my betters dead—
I alive and they but dust:
Oh, be certain God is just!

"In this place that truth I found,
Hence I deem it holy ground,
Over-worth, a thousand-fold,
All the county, wood and wold."
So the feeble murmurs died;
We in Christian words replied,
Speaking in our measured scope
Of a purer faith and hope,

Of the gospel of the poor,
But he answered us no more,
Quickened by one thought alone,
Else his ears were ears of stone.

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Lo! the cricket hushed his music

At the dull, unwonted sound Of the ripened mellow apple Falling softly to the ground.

All the days of rain or sunshine

Here had made their work complete Since the blossom dropped in springtime Till the fruit fell at my feet, Loosened by the hand of Nature

With a touch that made no sound, From the Father's hand of bounty Falling softly to the ground.

Men have watched or men have slumbered,

Counted days or laughed or wept, But the upward flow of juices.

God's great calendar have kept, And the great machine of Nature Onward moves without a sound, Till we, startled, mark its fruitage Falling softly to the ground.

Then

my heart was dark and heavy As I saw an iron hand Moving in a sweep resistless Through the air and sea and land, Ripening its plans gigantic,

Holding all things helpless, bound, Till the full-grown curse or blessing

Falls as fruitage to the ground.

But the silver autumn splendor
Shone about my waiting feet,
Glistened on the golden fruitage,
Sending up an odor sweet;
And I read a sweeter lesson

In the harvest spread around

Of a God of patience ever

Showering blessings o'er the ground.

A. T. WORDEN.

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Find them with work, and they murmur For he who by patent of wealth or birth

not;

Work from bed to bed,

They give the day for the daily bread

A ready price for the life

Of self and child and wife.

It is well, no doubt; it is good—

At least, it is understood

That the sentence did not fall

An equal brand upon all.

But that some should share it in work,

And some in pleasure

Should fill the measure

Of the curse that none may shirk.
And the squire would raise his eyes,
Bloodshot in fierce surprise,
Did I question-not his right
To the wealth that is his delight,
His virtue, wisdom, grace,

Nor the power that makes him absolute
Over man as over brute,

Grinds men to earth,

He who darkens and dwarf and blinds

Immortal minds,

Keeps men drawers of water, hewers of wood,

Till each one feeds

Mere animal needs,

With never a sense of higher good

He on his individual soul

Must take the whole,

Must stand for each wasted soul's ideal
Crushed 'neath the real,

For its aspirations by him debased,
Its powers laid waste,

For all

Lost to the ignorant thrall That might to life a higher impulse give Or to God's glory live.

This is the cost

Of the rank and the gold and the land Held in a single hand,

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