"
There was one anonymous waif in my collection that I was very
fond of. I have never seen it since, nor ever had the least clue
to its authorship. It stirred me and haunted me; and it often
comes back to me now, in snatches like these:--
"The human mind! That lofty thing,
The palace and the throne
Where Reason sits, a sceptred king,
And breathes his judgment-tone!"
"The human soul! That startling thing,
Mysterious and sublime;
An angel sleeping on the wing,
Worn by the scoffs of time.
>From heaven in tears to earth it stole-
That startling thing, the human soul."
I was just beginning, in my questionings as to the meaning of
life, to get glimpses of its true definition from the poets,--
that it is love, service, the sacrifice of self for others' good.
The lesson was slowly learned, but every hint of it went to my
heart, and I kept in silent upon my window wall reminders like
that of holy George Herbert:"
"Be useful where thou livest, that they may
Both want and wish thy pleasing presence still.
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