A SONG IN PRAISE

Hail, blessed Blunder! golden idol, hail!—

Clay-footed deity of all who fail.

Celestial image, let thy glory shine,

Thy feet concealing, but a lamp to mine.

Let me, at seasons opportune and fit,

By turns adore thee and by turns commit.

In thy high service let me ever be

( Yet never serve thee as my critics me )

Happy and fallible, content to feel

I blunder chiefly when to thee I kneel.

But best felicity is his thy praise

Who utters unaware in works and ways —

Who laborare est orare proves,

And feels thy suasion wheresoe'er he moves,

Serving thy purpose, not thine altar, still,

And working, for he thinks it his, thy will.

If such a life with blessings be not fraught,

I envy Peter Robertson for naught.