“From Hindustan to You”

'Tis eve in an old Hindu town,   The sun is setting low, The birds, sweet things, are in their nests   And all the West's aglow. The Mystic gazes in her glass,   The future seeks to see, A mist appears with lurid light,   'Tis made of future years. The mist grows bright and takes on form;   The Mystic strains her eyes, She sees the thing no man doth know   But then the vision dies. Her face grows tense, a face so grave,   I wonder what she sees— The vision passed. "I know," she cries.   She holds the future's keys. "Oh friend from Occident afar,   List' to my crystal's tale, A tale of Gorham Normal School,   'Twould tell that some may fail. "The class that leaves the school this year   Will ne'er again be gathered, The wills of men o'er all the earth   Will cause it to be scattered. "The vision that first puzzled me   Is clear to me right now, A paradox, quite clear to me,   'Twill all who heed endow. "Some best are worst, some worst are best."   I pondered on this thought. It seemed to me a tangled mess   That fiendish hands had wrought. "You're puzzled, friend of the Occident,   A truth in this you'll find." Surely I was and asked her aid   To ease my troubled mind. "Take heed, ye ones who are best at school,   Don't let it go to your head, For some will know and, rid of you,   Get others in your stead. "And those who are so weak at work,   Get up and do the right. Your work calls for your very best,   Go on with all your might. "My crystal glass would say to all,   'Take heed and do thy best, 'Tis up to you by your own choice,   Go forth with Christian zest.'"