MY BROTHER'S KEEPER?

(A WARNING)

"Am I my brother's keeper?"

Yes, of a truth!

Thine asking is thine answer.

That self-condemning cry of Cain

Has been the plea of every selfish soul since

then,

Which hath its brother slain.

God's word is plain,

And doth thy shrinking soul arraign.

Thy brother's keeper?

Yea, of a truth thou art!

For if not-who?

Are ye not both,-both thou and he

Of God's great family?

How rid thee of thy soul's responsibility?

For every ill in all the world

Each soul is sponsor and account must bear.
And He, and he thy brother of despair,

Claim, of thy overmuch, their share.

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER? (continued)

Thou hast had good, and he the strangled

days;

But now, the old things pass.

No longer of thy grace

Is he content to live in evil case

For the anointing of thy shining face.

The old things pass.-Beware lest ye pass with

them,

And your place

Become an emptiness!

Beware! Lest, when the "Have-nots" claim,
From those who have, their rightful share,
Thy borders be swept bare

As by the final flame.

Better to share before than after.

"After?" ... For thee may be no after! Only the howl of mocking laughter

At thy belated care. Make no mistake!— "After" will be too late.

When once the "Have-nots" claim . . . they

take.

"After!" . . . When that full claim is made,

You and your golden gods may all lie dead.

MY BROTHER'S KEEPER? (continued)

Set now your house in order,

Ere it be too late!

For, once the storm of hate

Be loosed, no man shall stay it till

Its thirst has slaked its fill,

And you, poor victims of this last "too late," Shall in the shadows mourn your lost estate.

A TELEPHONE MESSAGE

(TO WHOM IT MAY CONCERN)

Hello! Hello!

Are you there? Are you there?
Ah! That you? Well,-
This is just to tell you

That there's trouble in the air. . .

Then take a word of warning,

And... Beware!

What trouble?

Every trouble, everywhere,

Every wildest kind of nightmare

That has ridden you is there,

In the air.

And it's coming like a whirlwind,

A TELEPHONE MESSAGE (continued)

Like a wild beast mad with hunger,
To rend and wrench and tear,-

To tear the world in pieces maybe,
Unless it gets its share.

Can't you see the signs and portents?
Can't you feel them in the air?
Can't you see, you unbeliever?
Can't you see?—or don't you care,—
That the Past is gone for ever,
Past your uttermost endeavour,—
That To-day is on the scrap-heap,
And the Future-anywhere?

Where?

Ah-that's beyond me!

But it lies with those who dare
To think of big To-morrows,
And intend to have their share.

All the things you've held and trusted
Are played-out, decayed, and rusted;
Now, in fiery circumstance,
They will all be readjusted.

If you cling to those old things,
Hoping still to hold the strings,