OCR Text |
Show j The Dying Hindu By James A. Lelthman An Hindu from the far east enmc, If not for wealth mayhap for fame, Yot all tho whllo ho thought It rudo That Christians shed each other'B blood. On Europe's batttefiold ho stood, With many moro of brotherhood Or Hindus, strangers to tho codo, Or kindred slaughtering ala mode. Our hero loft a blooming maid In tears nnd anguish unallayed, To whom ho sworo nllcglanco trtio No other damsel ho would woo. Tho benediction or his slro Like morning dow, his soul insplro That ho no craven would bo found Hut valiant bo on battlo ground. His mother, sho who gavo him blrt Entwined her arms around his girt And pressed him to her breast one moro, In anguish nover felt beforo. What Irony of fate appears To havo ovolved through passln years, Tho hand that smoto his fatherlan Ho kisses now without command. i H ' r Ho marvels at tho ethics taught By thoso who forged his totters tnut, That good for ovll ono must do, l!ut versus Is tho rule, seems truo. Tlij efforts of tho Christian band Who long ago with outstretched hand Intruded on tho Hindu homo, With tho nudaclty of Homo. Tho specious plea of pity Put forth by priestly brovlary, Tho Hindu now was mado to seo That it was bald hypocrisy. Thou shalt not kill, nor covet aught Your neighbor hath, appealed some what, To Hindu mind, sub-hoathen thought Yet by theso Christians set at naught. wm&& iUU'i. m a mm Thds mnsed tho Hinds in the trench, Ucsot by cold, yet aimed towrenc'h, Tho vnntago from his Teuton foe Regardless of tho common woo. At length a missile found its man From German weapon swift it ran, And lo, our hero wounded lay, Desmcared In blood tho lengthened day. Ho found his lifo was ebbing fast, And thoughts of homo was thither cast, His loved ones thero ho slghod to see. But now It seems 'twas not to be. With thoughts unspoken thus he mused. Is this my end with mind confused, Still sane enohgh to comprehend, His race for glory soon would end. Had glory' tls a phantom wild, He had pursued unreconciled, To premises bo contraband, That wrest tho right on every hand. With stole mien, and wanton air, Ho moralized In deep despair, I'd rather servo tho God of love, Than bo a monarch hand and glovo, With Czar or Kdlser blazing now, And dlo unstand behind a plow. The heights nnd dopiliB of modern llfo, With all its ebbs and flows of strife When portrayed by a master hand, Shows much thero Is to understand. Logan, Dec, 1914. |