Reader, whate'er thy name may be,
Whate'er thy station, sex, or age,
Lo! thou must pay the penalty,
And add a trifle to my page!

Art thou a maiden young and free,
Thy fancies teeming fresh and fair,
Leave not this book until you see
Your own bright thoughts reflected there.

Art thou a lover, take thy pen
And write a lay to faithful love—
The chiefest bliss of lowly men,
The chiefest joy of saints above.

Art thou a young and bright-souled one,
Open thy spirit and unfold
Its thoughts, that we may gaze upon
The glory-glimpses you behold!

Art thou a man of troubled life,
Speak of the time when care shall cease.
Art thou a soldier, tell of strife;
Art thou a poet, sing of peace.

Art thou a pilgrim old and gray,
Toil-stained and weary of the road,
Yet heavenward bent, teach us the way
To grasp the outstretched hand of God!