. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. a friend in time of need,In spite of foes,—a friend indeed; That was quite evident,—A friend who drew his heart right out,And for his soul did gave in full, heart, mind and soul, In deep acknowledgment. And then, through all his deadly pains,He bravely smiled. . .and sighed,— Just one long sigh of deep content,Then dropped his and died. Page One Hundred and Fifty-eight f&nz ^iunitxtit unit ©tts ^finmxms Tftttms His comrades took the trench next day, And found him nailed up there,With a smile of grace upon his face,
. One hundred and one famous poems, with a prose supplement. a friend in time of need,In spite of foes,—a friend indeed; That was quite evident,—A friend who drew his heart right out,And for his soul did gave in full, heart, mind and soul, In deep acknowledgment. And then, through all his deadly pains,He bravely smiled. . .and sighed,— Just one long sigh of deep content,Then dropped his and died. Page One Hundred and Fifty-eight f&nz ^iunitxtit unit ©tts ^finmxms Tftttms His comrades took the trench next day, And found him nailed up there,With a smile of grace upon his face, But never a sign of care. And there, on his cross, they buried him, Against a Judgment Day;Not That Great Day,—but a nearer one,That draweth on as the war is won,When, for the evil they have done, The doers of ill shall pay. This is simply a name of my own choos-ing. If perchance there should be an actualJim Baxter who might feel aggrieved by thisuse of his name, I take this opportunityof stating that nothing herein in any wayrefers to The FooPs Prayer Edward R. Sill (Born April 29, 1841; Died February ) The royal feast was done; the KingSought some new sport to banish care, And to his jester cried: Sir Fool, Kneel now, and make for us a prayer! The jester doffed his cap and bells,And stood the mocking court before; They could not see the bitter smileBehind the painted grin he wore. He bowed his head, and bent his kneeUpon the monarchs silken stool; His pleading voice arose: O Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool! Page One Hundred and Fifty-nine ®ttz ^itcttitvtit nttb <&xte ^finmxtxz T&xizmz No pity, Lord, could change the heartFrom red with wrong to white as wool; The rod must heal the sin: but, Lord,Be merciful to me, a fool! Tis not by guilt the onward sweepOf truth and right, O Lord, we stay; Tis by our follies that so long We hold the earth from heaven away. These clumsy feet, still in the mire,Go crushing blossoms without end; These hard, well-meaning
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