The Days in Which We Live.
By Frances E. Bolton
THESE are days of wild excitement,—
Mobs arise beyond control,
Lynch law reigns without indictment,
Tho it scars the human soul.
In the fever of a moment,
In the furor of a fray,
In the silence of long torment,
Men cast hope and life away. These are days of fierce achievement,—
Competition's race begun,
Click of hammer, no relievement,
Hot, the toiling wheels whirl on,
Rush of cars in webbed commotion,
Men are running to and fro,
Strain of nerve and keen emotion
Is the whole world's undertow. These are days of hard contrastings,—
Rich in lavish luxury,
Poor in bitter, sad recastings,
Under goad of penury,
Beggars, menials, workmen, languish,
Pressed by heartless grasp and cold,
What to those who gain their anguish?
Men grow calloused as their gold. These are days of world-enthronement,—
Lust of eyes and pride of life,
Days when self hath great endowment
To attain the end of strife.
Days of epicurean festal,
Days of fatness for the lewd,
Days when men grow coarse and bestial
From the slaughter of the good. These are days of warring nations—
Armies, navies blast and boom;
Picked, the flower of rank and station,
Facing deathward for their doom;
Hearts defiled and homes dismantled,
Earth's a charnel-house of dust.
Is there aught for man implanted
To survive the reign of lust? Yes, my soul, behold, above you
Flies an angel with a scroll
Written on, "The Father loves you,
He will save the seeking soul;"
Flying, crying as he passes,
"Turn to Christ and Calvary,"
O awake the frenzied masses,
Ere time strikes eternity. In these days of swift probation,
O join all, ye hearts that ken,
Publish out the great salvation,
That still waits repentant men;
For these days are of decision;
Souls to lasting choice are driven;
Swiftly comes the just concision,
Hate to doom, and love to heaven.