MASKS AND FACES.
Copyright, 1889, by Willis Woodward & co.
By Richard Jose.
In life we all must wear a mask, some facial disguise,
To hide the workings of our hearts from other people's eyes-
The thief before his Judge will wear the mask; of penitence, '
The magistrate assuming that of sham benevolence;
While in some little hamlet, where the squire's a man of might.
His servants say: "how good he is, how gen'rous, how upright!"
They know him for a tyrant, yet they wear a mask each day.
And praise his many virtues, why? because they find it pay.
See him in church, what piety! He reads his prayer hook fervently;
On each subscription list we see his name in several places;
But when at home a servant's slow, or growing old. it's out you go!"
It's then he'll his true color.- show in the play of masks and faces.
See there upon the mimic stage the pet comedian plays-
What wit there is In every speech, how whimsical his ways;
While loud and long the plaudits ring at each new quip and jest,
As from his lips each new one falls, seeming brighter than the rest;
Each lady through her opera-glass his changing features quiz;
They smile, applaud, and then exclaim: "How very droll he is.
Oh. happy actor. Idolized alike by stall and pit.
How very happy you must he, blest with so choice a wit!"
See him at home an hour or so. as o'er his w tie's bed. hemline low-.
Watching life's tide ebb and flow, returns her weak embraces:
When suddenly, before his eyes, the darling of his heart she dies.
'Tis then he learns what mockery lies in the play of masks and fates.
Who is it warmly shakes your hand and treats you to the best,
And tells you of his many friends 'tis you he likes the best.
That President you'd surely be if he could have his way,
'Tis the politicians' oily tongue that sings this siren lay;
He's a candidate for office, he wants your little vote.
His song he does not improvise, be always sings by rote.
And us from right to left he moves throughout the voting throng,
It matters not if Brown or Smith, he sings the same old song.
But when election's strife is o'er, and he's elected, then you're sore;
Alas! he shakes your hand no more, 'tis roughened by toils' traces; '
Office may be a public trust, but he'll be honest if he "must.
For he is looking for the dust in the play of masks and facet,