I.

Old with its sorrow, weary with the load Of angry strife and murderous thought of wrong It hath with such sad patience borne so long, The year draws near the judgment-seat of God. Signed at its birth with Heaven’s holiest name, Blessed with the chrism of self-sacrifice, It brought men gifts of more than royal price; Asked in return a pure and generous fame; Life’s book it opened at a clean white page— Whereon fell not the shadow of a stain— Set in man’s hand a consecrated pen Whose script should be the future’s heritage. Lo! we have written; shall we dare to see The closed book opened in eternity?