Writer, whosoe'er thou art,
Speaker, on whatever theme,
Write and speak from heart to heart,
Truly being what you seem;
Thoughts and words alone have power
When they reach us quick and fresh,
And the spirit of the hour
Turns these stones to hearts of flesh.

Living truth, that bubbles hot
Like a Geyser in the soul,
Boils and steams and slackens not
Till it overflows its bowl;
Strongly runs the current then,
Swiftly all the sluices fill;
And the swollen hearts of men
Make a river to thy will.

Who can wonder that in vain
Scores of dullards preach for years,
Lulling conscience to its bane
Fast asleep for hopes and fears?
All is death: each fossil thought
Word-embedded lies in clay,
And no heart is touch'd or taught
To feel, to tremble, or to pray.

It is not eloquence, nor skill,
Nor any human power or art,
That surely sways another's will,
Controls his life and cheers his heart;
It is the frank and earnest plan
Of simple truth sincerely spoken,
That breaks the spirit of a man,
Or heals it up however broken.

Seek then a living Warmth within
To work with vital force without;
Drive from thee selfishness and sin,
And lure thy timorous graces out;
Then write or speak what impulse wills,
And no man shall withstand the power
That from the lip of truth distils
In quicken'd feeling's thrilling hour.