BY GEO. W. H. HARRISON.

Like phantoms weird of troubled dream,
In they come—a ceaseless stream—
The callow youth, the aged sire,
To reap the fruit of Satan's hire.

With pallid brow and rueful face
They view their garments of disgrace,
And oft in eyes unused to weep
Unbidden tears will slowly creep.

Be lenient with the blighted crowd;
Some come, perhaps, to greet a shroud;
Some, perhaps, will go outside
And yet become a nation's pride.

If by kindness you reclaim
A single soul from crime and shame,
God will reward the noble deed
And aid you in the hour of need.