Leaping from quick and busy brain,
Muscle and nerve like serfs obey,
And hasten at the spirit's call
To gather lash and lid away,
Till by the iris' shifting shade
It stops and looks at you and me;
An eye—a soul—or ill or good;
Demon, or angel mystery.
Mentor or siren, friend or foe,
The wily tongue may weave its spell;
But there outlooking stands the soul,
A steadfast tale of truth to tell.
If Anger holds her court within,
Or starry Hope, or bitter Woe,
Or gentle Love, or dewy Faith,
Truth telegraphs the tidings through,
Till mortal eyes no more they seem,
But watching soldiers, sent to stand
Between the body and the soul—
The pickets of the Spirit Land.
LIFE'S SOLDIERS.
WITHOUT a flag of strange device
In glowing colors bright and gay,
No nodding plume above the brow,
Nor title blazoned U. S. A.,
8*
