Longfellow.

WHAT REDRESS?

I pray you, do not use this thing
For vengeance; but if questioning
What wound, when dealt your humankind,
Goes deepest--surely he shall find
Who wrongs you, loving _him_ no less--
There's nothing hurts like tenderness.

--James Whitcomb Riley.

FORGIVENESS

When on the fragrant sandal-tree
The woodman's axe descends,
And she who bloomed so beauteously
Beneath the keen stroke bends,
E'en on the edge that wrought her death
Dying she breathed her sweetest breath,
As if to token, in her fall,
Peace to her foes, and love to all.

How hardly man this lesson learns,
To smile, and bless the hand that spurns;
To see the blow, to feel the pain,
But render only love again!
This spirit not to earth is given--
ONE had it, but he came from heaven.
Reviled, rejected, and betrayed,
No curse he breathed, no plaint he made,
But when in death's deep pang he sighed
Prayed for his murderers, and died.

LOVE COUNTETH NOT THE COST

There is an ancient story, simply told,
As ever were the holy things of old,
Of one who served through many a toiling year
To earn at last the joy he held most dear;
A weary term, to others strangely lost.
What mattered it? Love counteth not the cost.

Yet not alone beneath far Eastern skies
The faithful life hath, patient, won its prize;
Whenever hearts beat high and brave hopes swell
The soul, some Rachel waits beside the well;
For her the load is borne, the desert crossed.
What matters it? Love counteth not the cost.

This then of man--and what, dear Lord, of thee,
Bowed in the midnight of Gethsemane--
Come from those regions infinite with peace,
To buy with such a price the world's release?
Thy voice descends, through ages tempest-tossed,
"What matters it? Love counteth not the cost."

O Christ, Redeemer, Master! I who stand
Beneath the pressure of thy gracious hand--
What is the service thou wouldst have from me?
What is the burden to be borne for thee?
I, too, would say, though care and fear exhaust,
"What matters it? Love counteth not the cost."

LOVE OF HOME

Thy voice is heard through rolling drums
That beat to battle where he stands;
Thy face across his fancy comes,
And gives the battle to his hands.
A moment, whil