'Tis infamy to die and not be missed. - Carlos Wilcox

The sultry summer past, September comes,
Soft twilight of the soft-declining year.
All mildness, soothing loneliness and peace,
The fading season ere the falling come.

Be thy best thoughts to work divine addressed;
Do something — do it soon — will all thy might;
An angel's wing would droop if long at rest,
And God Himself inactive were no longer blessed.

Of true benevolence, its charms divine,
With other motives to call forth its power,
And its grand triumphs, multiplied beyond
All former bounds, in this its golden age,
Humbly I sing, awed by the holy theme;
A theme exalted, though as yet unsung,
In beauty rich, of inspiration full,
And worthy of a nobler harp than that
From which heroic strains sublimely sound.