THE NAME UPON THE WINDOWPANE.
In the old Scottish inn we met
A motley group from every land,
Scholar and artist, peer and priest,
And many a traveler, browned and tanned;
All pilgrims, waiting for an hour,
Chatting in idle courtesy,
And yet, amid the drifting talk,
A little message came to me. It happened thus: A restless boy
Unto the dripping window went,
Whose glass, scarred with a thousand names,
His mind to the same fancy bent.
He sought and found a vacant spot,
And took the diamond from his hand;
But, ere a letter had been formed,
A voice, accustomed to command, Cried, "Philip, stop; before you write,
Consider well what you're about."
"Father, why should I hesitate?"
"Because you cannot rub it out." These words fell on my idle ear;
I said them o'er and o'er again,
And asked myself, "Oh, who would choose
All they have written to remain?" Unto a loving mother oft
We all have sent, without a doubt,
Full many a hard and careless word
That now we never can rub out;
For cruel words cut deeper far
Than diamond on the windowpane,
And, oft recalled in after years,
They wound her o'er and o'er again. So, in our daily walk and life,
We write and do and say the thing
We never can undo nor stay
With any future sorrowing.
We carve ourselves on beating hearts!
Ah! then how wise to pause and doubt,
To blend with love and thought our words,
Because we cannot rub them out.