THE FIRST RHYME OF SYM
We strive together in life's crowded mart,
Keen-eyed, with clutching hands to over-reach.
We scheme, we lie, we play the selfish part,
Masking our lust for gain with gentle speech;
And masking too—O pity ignorance!—
Our very selves behind a careless glance.
Ah, foolish brothers, seeking e'er in vain
The one dear gift that lies so near at hand;
Hoping to barter gold we meanly gain
For that the poorest beggar in the land
Holds for his own, to hoard while yet he spends;
Seeking fresh treasure in the hearts of friends.
We preach; yet do we deem it worldly-wise
To count unbounded brother-love a shame,
So, ban the brother-look from out our eyes,
Lest sparks of sympathy be fanned to flame.
We smile; and yet withhold, in secret fear,
The word so hard to speak, so sweet to hear—
The Open Sesame to meanest hearts,
The magic word, to which stern eyes grow soft.
And crafty faces, that the cruel marts
Have seared and scored, turn gentle—Nay, how oft
