There are fields of martial gloryWhere the slain are ne'er bemoaned;There are victories though silent,Where grim monarchs are dethroned;There are scenes of strife and forayWhere gigantic forces striveFor the mastery and triumphOf the ends for which they live.There are forces more puissantThan ten million armed men,There are banners that are emblemsOf the mighty tongue and pen,That reflect upon their blazonHonest purpose grand and true,Such as never graced the victorsOf Sedan and Waterloo.There are weapons in these contestsKeener than the Damask blade,There are metals of such temperAs no crucible e'er made;For the dross must be extractedIn the furnace of the soulTill no refuse or pollutionShall defile the perfect whole.Though this army counts its millions,Each must face alone the foe,Each must bring a special weapon,Each must strike himself the blowThat shall free him from the shacklesOf that despot and his train,Who with ignorance and vicesWould destroy the heart and brain.Our true sword is EducationAnd grim Ignorance our foe;We are battling with our passions,And our spirits are aglowWith a full determinationTo accept the proven truthThat the days of precious seed-time,Are the sunny days of youth.Day by day the contest ragesAnd each task that's daily done,Brings a soothing satisfactionThat another victory's won.Thus the strength we gain in actionAids in each succeeding strife,To make the struggles lighterIn the battles of our life.There are avenues and bywaysWhich lead into the heart,Whose intricate environmentsRequire the highest artTo tell what inspirationShall touch a dormant mind,And fire it with a living zealFor a station more refined.It is only voice of musicThat speaks universal tongue;It matters not in what accentA sweet melody is sung,It will find responsive feelingsWhich will aptly understandThough it be of unknown measureAnd sung in a foreign land.We come with our martial music,With our noisy fife and drumTo inspire the weak and weary,To open the mouths of the dumb,To train our every emotionFor a better sphere in life,To enjoy for the passing momentThe sound of the drum and fife.We hope our notes may be peacefulAnd free from carnage of war;We would bind up the broken heartedAnd cover the wound and scar,But should foe our country menaceAnd refuse to be just and calm,We would sound aloud the tocsinAnd march to defend Uncle Sam.
There are fields of martial gloryWhere the slain are ne'er bemoaned;There are victories though silent,Where grim monarchs are dethroned;There are scenes of strife and forayWhere gigantic forces striveFor the mastery and triumphOf the ends for which they live.
There are forces more puissantThan ten million armed men,There are banners that are emblemsOf the mighty tongue and pen,That reflect upon their blazonHonest purpose grand and true,Such as never graced the victorsOf Sedan and Waterloo.
There are weapons in these contestsKeener than the Damask blade,There are metals of such temperAs no crucible e'er made;For the dross must be extractedIn the furnace of the soulTill no refuse or pollutionShall defile the perfect whole.
Though this army counts its millions,Each must face alone the foe,Each must bring a special weapon,Each must strike himself the blowThat shall free him from the shacklesOf that despot and his train,Who with ignorance and vicesWould destroy the heart and brain.
Our true sword is EducationAnd grim Ignorance our foe;We are battling with our passions,And our spirits are aglowWith a full determinationTo accept the proven truthThat the days of precious seed-time,Are the sunny days of youth.
Day by day the contest ragesAnd each task that's daily done,Brings a soothing satisfactionThat another victory's won.Thus the strength we gain in actionAids in each succeeding strife,To make the struggles lighterIn the battles of our life.
There are avenues and bywaysWhich lead into the heart,Whose intricate environmentsRequire the highest artTo tell what inspirationShall touch a dormant mind,And fire it with a living zealFor a station more refined.
It is only voice of musicThat speaks universal tongue;It matters not in what accentA sweet melody is sung,It will find responsive feelingsWhich will aptly understandThough it be of unknown measureAnd sung in a foreign land.
We come with our martial music,With our noisy fife and drumTo inspire the weak and weary,To open the mouths of the dumb,To train our every emotionFor a better sphere in life,To enjoy for the passing momentThe sound of the drum and fife.
We hope our notes may be peacefulAnd free from carnage of war;We would bind up the broken heartedAnd cover the wound and scar,But should foe our country menaceAnd refuse to be just and calm,We would sound aloud the tocsinAnd march to defend Uncle Sam.
To plant an intellectual seedAnd guard its growth from noxious weed,That it may fruitage bear,Is solace more, a thousand fold,Than hoarding bonds and stocks and gold,Or sporting jewels rare.
To plant an intellectual seedAnd guard its growth from noxious weed,That it may fruitage bear,Is solace more, a thousand fold,Than hoarding bonds and stocks and gold,Or sporting jewels rare.
A silent force marks out the courseOf every man and woman,No matter what may be the lotOf creatures that are human,The end attained is ever gainedBy means so strange and hidden,We call it luck, instead of pluck,Or fate by fairies bidden.The human eye cannot descryAll workings of the brain;At silent night, it gains a mightWhich bears a mental trainWhose lucid glow may thrones o'erthrow,Or bid new nations rise,May prove some plan whereby proud manMay ransack earth and skies.Think not such power a fairy's dower,Or influence from some star,It did not spring from anythingBeyond what mortals are.To man is given the keys of heavenIf they be rightly used;No being born but must be shornIf blessings are abused.Keep well the trust! Guard it we must,From in and outward foes,Strength will be gained, might be attainedBy efforts to opposeThe secret vice that doth enticeTo ruin and despair;But he who will hath power to killSuch vice within its lair.Let habits grand the life commandAnd Eden is regained;No future bliss need surpass thisIf habits are unstained.Let smiling face your presence graceAnd earth will smile on you,Let from the tongue a song be sung,Its echo will be true,And sing again the same refrainUpon the selfsame key,Till airs elate, reverberate,Heaven's sweetest minstrelsy.If we extend a hand to friendWho needs a brother's care,Though it may hold no purse of goldThe act he will revere.Scarce do we know whence comes the glowThat duty done e'er gives,Its altar-fire cannot expire—Here and hereafter lives.Such habits then, for gods and men,Are but the means wherebyThey may prepare to gain their shareTo mansions in the sky.Sing then a song, its notes prolong,In praise of Habit's power;Let custom be from evil freeAnd it will blessings shower.
A silent force marks out the courseOf every man and woman,No matter what may be the lotOf creatures that are human,
The end attained is ever gainedBy means so strange and hidden,We call it luck, instead of pluck,Or fate by fairies bidden.
The human eye cannot descryAll workings of the brain;At silent night, it gains a mightWhich bears a mental train
Whose lucid glow may thrones o'erthrow,Or bid new nations rise,May prove some plan whereby proud manMay ransack earth and skies.
Think not such power a fairy's dower,Or influence from some star,It did not spring from anythingBeyond what mortals are.
To man is given the keys of heavenIf they be rightly used;No being born but must be shornIf blessings are abused.
Keep well the trust! Guard it we must,From in and outward foes,Strength will be gained, might be attainedBy efforts to oppose
The secret vice that doth enticeTo ruin and despair;But he who will hath power to killSuch vice within its lair.
Let habits grand the life commandAnd Eden is regained;No future bliss need surpass thisIf habits are unstained.
Let smiling face your presence graceAnd earth will smile on you,Let from the tongue a song be sung,Its echo will be true,
And sing again the same refrainUpon the selfsame key,Till airs elate, reverberate,Heaven's sweetest minstrelsy.
If we extend a hand to friendWho needs a brother's care,Though it may hold no purse of goldThe act he will revere.
Scarce do we know whence comes the glowThat duty done e'er gives,Its altar-fire cannot expire—Here and hereafter lives.
Such habits then, for gods and men,Are but the means wherebyThey may prepare to gain their shareTo mansions in the sky.
Sing then a song, its notes prolong,In praise of Habit's power;Let custom be from evil freeAnd it will blessings shower.
How habit grows no one e'er knows,And yet he is a giantThat has a will and subtle skillThat never yet was pliant.'Tis very plain that he has slainMore than the sword and spear,With wily art he charms the heartAnd quells the greatest fear.His artful eye is wondrous slyAnd has bewitching glance,Where'er he moves his victim lovesTo see his powers advance.He makes no noise 'mong girls and boysWhom he would call his own,His spell is cast, he holds them fastTill they are overthrown.When this is done the field is won,And they are all his own,He heeds no cry, no choking sigh,No plea, no prayer, no groan.If you would be forever freeFrom tyrant so severe,Watch every thought before you're caught,For he is hovering near.Your every word guard with the swordOf truth, which never fails,Its honor's sung in every tongue,Its power e'er prevails.Act well your part, and keep your heartFree from the tares he sows,For at the end like traitor friendHe leaves you with your woes.Thus Habit mars with wounds and scarsThe favored of our race,Transforms the mind that God designedShould be the dwelling placeOf noble thought with heaven fraughtInto a sterile plain,Whose atmosphere is dank and drear—A wild chaotic brain.Man scarce may be entirely freeFrom wiles and tricks and snares,Whose stealthy forms and subtle charmsApproach us unawares.Our eyes are blind or not inclinedTo see that powerful hand,That silently, yet forciblyGives us its strong command.
How habit grows no one e'er knows,And yet he is a giantThat has a will and subtle skillThat never yet was pliant.
'Tis very plain that he has slainMore than the sword and spear,With wily art he charms the heartAnd quells the greatest fear.
His artful eye is wondrous slyAnd has bewitching glance,Where'er he moves his victim lovesTo see his powers advance.
He makes no noise 'mong girls and boysWhom he would call his own,His spell is cast, he holds them fastTill they are overthrown.
When this is done the field is won,And they are all his own,He heeds no cry, no choking sigh,No plea, no prayer, no groan.
If you would be forever freeFrom tyrant so severe,Watch every thought before you're caught,For he is hovering near.
Your every word guard with the swordOf truth, which never fails,Its honor's sung in every tongue,Its power e'er prevails.
Act well your part, and keep your heartFree from the tares he sows,For at the end like traitor friendHe leaves you with your woes.
Thus Habit mars with wounds and scarsThe favored of our race,Transforms the mind that God designedShould be the dwelling place
Of noble thought with heaven fraughtInto a sterile plain,Whose atmosphere is dank and drear—A wild chaotic brain.
Man scarce may be entirely freeFrom wiles and tricks and snares,Whose stealthy forms and subtle charmsApproach us unawares.
Our eyes are blind or not inclinedTo see that powerful hand,That silently, yet forciblyGives us its strong command.
How strangely dark are the vaporsThat sometimes obscure the way,Ere the light of truth advancesTo the noon of a perfect day.As the unforeseen approachesIn stealth from ambushed retreat,The mettle of soul is summonedIts emergencies to meet.To shrink by its sudden coming,To surrender our controlWithout a struggle for vantage,Betrays a weakness of soul.The conflicts with emergenciesWe meet in our daily call,Give strength or death to moral worthAs we conquer them or fall.To meet at once with valor trueThe attack from an ambuscade,In moral strife, or bloody war,Hath many a hero made.Who has not trained himself to meetThe vicissitudes that ariseUpon the course of life's stern race,Must fail to secure its prize.
How strangely dark are the vaporsThat sometimes obscure the way,Ere the light of truth advancesTo the noon of a perfect day.
As the unforeseen approachesIn stealth from ambushed retreat,The mettle of soul is summonedIts emergencies to meet.
To shrink by its sudden coming,To surrender our controlWithout a struggle for vantage,Betrays a weakness of soul.
The conflicts with emergenciesWe meet in our daily call,Give strength or death to moral worthAs we conquer them or fall.
To meet at once with valor trueThe attack from an ambuscade,In moral strife, or bloody war,Hath many a hero made.
Who has not trained himself to meetThe vicissitudes that ariseUpon the course of life's stern race,Must fail to secure its prize.
To hold a pessimistic view,And see the world as darkly "blue,"And feel mankind is false, untrue,Is not a just conclusion;But Truth demands that Hope shall wearNo false rose in her silken hair,To hide Deceit, Fraud, and Despair,That feed on wild Delusion.
To hold a pessimistic view,And see the world as darkly "blue,"And feel mankind is false, untrue,Is not a just conclusion;But Truth demands that Hope shall wearNo false rose in her silken hair,To hide Deceit, Fraud, and Despair,That feed on wild Delusion.
The wrecks that lie on Strand Despair,Should serve as buoys on life's stern seasTo guide the voyager safely, whereHe may escape the tides and breezeThat drive to whirlpools, bars, and rocks,Where human vessels oft impingeAnd leave a ruin that but mocksThe pleadings of persuasion's hinge.An idle mind, companions base,A shrinking from a duty known,A sly deceit, a brazen face,A lying tongue, a sullen tone,Lead toward a wreck on Strand Despair,And none but self can move the helmTo change the course for scenes more fair,To save from storms that overwhelm.
The wrecks that lie on Strand Despair,Should serve as buoys on life's stern seasTo guide the voyager safely, whereHe may escape the tides and breezeThat drive to whirlpools, bars, and rocks,Where human vessels oft impingeAnd leave a ruin that but mocksThe pleadings of persuasion's hinge.
An idle mind, companions base,A shrinking from a duty known,A sly deceit, a brazen face,A lying tongue, a sullen tone,Lead toward a wreck on Strand Despair,And none but self can move the helmTo change the course for scenes more fair,To save from storms that overwhelm.
An alarm is sounding through the landThat tells of a stronger foeThan that which marched on Lexington,To strike a fatal blowAt the liberties our sires did claimFor themselves and all mankind,For this foe is a product of deceitAnd sophistry combined.Its victims fall by the smiling waysOf a charmed environmentThat lures him on to neglect and sin,And to final banishmentOf the vital spark of an earnest man,And all that is noble and true,To the effete round of nothingnessWhich honor and strength will subdue.No Spartan Helen of beauty and fame,No mermaid with winsome face,No Siren that sings an alluring song,No Pandora in her grace,Can soothe and charm to destruction's retreat,Like the foe that robs of powerTo meet the needs of life's true aim,The requirements of each hour.It has filled our courts, our prisons, our jails,And filled our almshouses, too,Itself and distress walk hand in hand,No crimes but its victims will do;Though it seems like a true and trusty friend'Tis a tyrant in disguise,It leads to distrust and uncertainty,It wins no enduring prize.In homes it leads to disorder wild,In school, to defiance of laws,In nations, to strife on bloody fields,In man, to destruction's jaws;In business its office is but to destroy,In friendship, brings lack of respect,In love, oft a maddened,frenziedheartThat can never endure neglect.Parents, true kindness holds steady hand,Judges, know justice is kind,Teachers, remember the work for youIs to strengthen heart and mind.Kindness, dethroned by lack of control,Ruins our girls and our boys,Firmness is noble, honest, and true,Indulgence only destroys.
An alarm is sounding through the landThat tells of a stronger foeThan that which marched on Lexington,To strike a fatal blowAt the liberties our sires did claimFor themselves and all mankind,For this foe is a product of deceitAnd sophistry combined.
Its victims fall by the smiling waysOf a charmed environmentThat lures him on to neglect and sin,And to final banishmentOf the vital spark of an earnest man,And all that is noble and true,To the effete round of nothingnessWhich honor and strength will subdue.
No Spartan Helen of beauty and fame,No mermaid with winsome face,No Siren that sings an alluring song,No Pandora in her grace,Can soothe and charm to destruction's retreat,Like the foe that robs of powerTo meet the needs of life's true aim,The requirements of each hour.
It has filled our courts, our prisons, our jails,And filled our almshouses, too,Itself and distress walk hand in hand,No crimes but its victims will do;Though it seems like a true and trusty friend'Tis a tyrant in disguise,It leads to distrust and uncertainty,It wins no enduring prize.
In homes it leads to disorder wild,In school, to defiance of laws,In nations, to strife on bloody fields,In man, to destruction's jaws;In business its office is but to destroy,In friendship, brings lack of respect,In love, oft a maddened,frenziedheartThat can never endure neglect.
Parents, true kindness holds steady hand,Judges, know justice is kind,Teachers, remember the work for youIs to strengthen heart and mind.Kindness, dethroned by lack of control,Ruins our girls and our boys,Firmness is noble, honest, and true,Indulgence only destroys.
And so another week has gone,And I once more am left aloneWithin my silent room;My mind is worn by fervent care,And, languishing, it needs repairFor duties yet to come.From all the cares which come on meI cannot be entirely freeThro' all this mortal life;But cares imported from abroadMake much more ponderous the load,And cause more bitter strife.With patient labor, day by day,I work along this toilsome wayIntent on doing good;My pupils' hearts I would inspireWith noble thoughts and strong desireFor intellectual food.I note the various schemes and arts,As prompted by the different hearts,They lead to different deeds.As deeds and hearts will correspond,By observation it is foundThere should be different meeds.The wish made known for some will do,And some a gentle frown would rueAnd feel extremely sad;While others need a sterner look,A reprimand, or sharp rebuke,And sometimes e'en the rod.Most gladly would I hail the dayWhen children cheerfully obey,(If e'er that day shall come,)But ere that happy day I see,A reformation there must beIn government at home.And what is my reward for allThis watchful care and earnest toilTo train the youthful mind?From Ignorance it draws a curse—Though pocket hold a puny purse—Yet one reward I find—To see the young prepared for lifeAnd launched upon the outward strifeOf its tempestuous sea,And know that I have trained that mind,With noble thought that heart refined,Is rich reward for me.When all life's lessons have been taught,And my own soul with love is fraughtFor earnest, striving man,Perhaps an understanding LordWill proffer as a great reward,Redemption through His plan.
And so another week has gone,And I once more am left aloneWithin my silent room;My mind is worn by fervent care,And, languishing, it needs repairFor duties yet to come.
From all the cares which come on meI cannot be entirely freeThro' all this mortal life;But cares imported from abroadMake much more ponderous the load,And cause more bitter strife.
With patient labor, day by day,I work along this toilsome wayIntent on doing good;My pupils' hearts I would inspireWith noble thoughts and strong desireFor intellectual food.
I note the various schemes and arts,As prompted by the different hearts,They lead to different deeds.As deeds and hearts will correspond,By observation it is foundThere should be different meeds.
The wish made known for some will do,And some a gentle frown would rueAnd feel extremely sad;While others need a sterner look,A reprimand, or sharp rebuke,And sometimes e'en the rod.
Most gladly would I hail the dayWhen children cheerfully obey,(If e'er that day shall come,)But ere that happy day I see,A reformation there must beIn government at home.
And what is my reward for allThis watchful care and earnest toilTo train the youthful mind?From Ignorance it draws a curse—Though pocket hold a puny purse—Yet one reward I find—
To see the young prepared for lifeAnd launched upon the outward strifeOf its tempestuous sea,And know that I have trained that mind,With noble thought that heart refined,Is rich reward for me.
When all life's lessons have been taught,And my own soul with love is fraughtFor earnest, striving man,Perhaps an understanding LordWill proffer as a great reward,Redemption through His plan.
A beautiful vision I sometimes see,That stands in the distance and smiles upon me;It points with a finger of radiance bright,To the fleeting shades of departing night.I would gladly know if this scene designedTo be a true type of the human mind,When the mists and clouds of dark ignorance,Shall into the realms of the unknown advance.
A beautiful vision I sometimes see,That stands in the distance and smiles upon me;It points with a finger of radiance bright,To the fleeting shades of departing night.I would gladly know if this scene designedTo be a true type of the human mind,When the mists and clouds of dark ignorance,Shall into the realms of the unknown advance.
The survival of the fittest,The advancement of the best,The enthronement of the truestIn the world's great crucial test,Is emblazoned on each bannerWherever man is found,And e'en 'mong plants and animalsThis holds, the world around.Then prepare for the survival,Allow no base retreat,(Dethronement means delinquency,)Endure the cold and heat;The elements that meet usMay all be overcome,With God and right ever in sight,The victory may be won.
The survival of the fittest,The advancement of the best,The enthronement of the truestIn the world's great crucial test,Is emblazoned on each bannerWherever man is found,And e'en 'mong plants and animalsThis holds, the world around.
Then prepare for the survival,Allow no base retreat,(Dethronement means delinquency,)Endure the cold and heat;The elements that meet usMay all be overcome,With God and right ever in sight,The victory may be won.
I have scanned the roll of teachers,Have noted the Aarons and HursWho have stayed education's Moses,And removed the cumbrous barsThat environed its anxious spirit,And bowed down its life with cares.I have counted them all over,Have analyzed heart and brain,Have watched them in daily laborThat I might some key obtainTo unlock the magical power,By which some supremely reign.I have listened with ear enraptured,Have caught the gleam of the eye,Have felt the glow of emotionWhen bright corruscations flyFrom mental touch and fervor,That prompted others to try.The soul knows no fire so warming,No light so fervent and true,As the glow of the living presenceOf one of the noble fewWho counts her pain but pleasure,If good she may only do.A teacher who knows her subjectsAnd has much of didactic art,Will present the truths of scienceTo the youthful mind and heart,In ways so apt and skillfulThey will never more depart,But will gather strength and beautyWith every day and hour,Until they become a fortress—An irresistible powerTo dispel the gloom of doubtingThat oft o'er the mind may lower.No truth is learned by mere telling,The mind must conceive and apply;There is inspiration, knowledge,In one's own discoveryThat lead to efforts and strugglesFor a greater mastery.Herein lies the power of teaching:A systemized method to doThat reaches the understanding,And leads on to fields anew,WhereThoughtshall be the head master,And Truth shall Error subdue;A heart that is wholly givenTo leading the youthful mind,To discover the powers and virtuesThey within themselves shall find,And mould them into actionsProgressive, strong, refined;A spirit that sees in the beingA gift from God unto man,That must live on thro' all ages,Though influenced by some planThat here has been determined,But God shall hereafter scan;A tongue that is but the voicingOf a heart aflame with its cause,That speaks of science and moralsFrom a knowledge of their laws;That speeds the true and worthy,But bids all deception pause;A judgment so wisely balancedAs to know what must be doneTo avoid the indiscretionsInto which so many run,Of telling, instead of leading,Till the victory has been won.
I have scanned the roll of teachers,Have noted the Aarons and HursWho have stayed education's Moses,And removed the cumbrous barsThat environed its anxious spirit,And bowed down its life with cares.
I have counted them all over,Have analyzed heart and brain,Have watched them in daily laborThat I might some key obtainTo unlock the magical power,By which some supremely reign.
I have listened with ear enraptured,Have caught the gleam of the eye,Have felt the glow of emotionWhen bright corruscations flyFrom mental touch and fervor,That prompted others to try.
The soul knows no fire so warming,No light so fervent and true,As the glow of the living presenceOf one of the noble fewWho counts her pain but pleasure,If good she may only do.
A teacher who knows her subjectsAnd has much of didactic art,Will present the truths of scienceTo the youthful mind and heart,In ways so apt and skillfulThey will never more depart,
But will gather strength and beautyWith every day and hour,Until they become a fortress—An irresistible powerTo dispel the gloom of doubtingThat oft o'er the mind may lower.
No truth is learned by mere telling,The mind must conceive and apply;There is inspiration, knowledge,In one's own discoveryThat lead to efforts and strugglesFor a greater mastery.
Herein lies the power of teaching:A systemized method to doThat reaches the understanding,And leads on to fields anew,WhereThoughtshall be the head master,And Truth shall Error subdue;
A heart that is wholly givenTo leading the youthful mind,To discover the powers and virtuesThey within themselves shall find,And mould them into actionsProgressive, strong, refined;
A spirit that sees in the beingA gift from God unto man,That must live on thro' all ages,Though influenced by some planThat here has been determined,But God shall hereafter scan;
A tongue that is but the voicingOf a heart aflame with its cause,That speaks of science and moralsFrom a knowledge of their laws;That speeds the true and worthy,But bids all deception pause;
A judgment so wisely balancedAs to know what must be doneTo avoid the indiscretionsInto which so many run,Of telling, instead of leading,Till the victory has been won.
In reckoning the moral stockOf any man or woman,It is but right to recollectThat all of us are human;If heart be true, the body frail,And honestly he's striven,Tho' oft a brother's plans may fail,He ought to be forgiven.
In reckoning the moral stockOf any man or woman,It is but right to recollectThat all of us are human;If heart be true, the body frail,And honestly he's striven,Tho' oft a brother's plans may fail,He ought to be forgiven.
The battle is not to the mighty,Nor the race to the fleet of foot,The peak is not reached by bounding,Nor the goal by a devious route;The problems of science and cultureHave been ages upon the way;The greatest vict'ries 'mong nationsHave not been won in a day.'Tis the steady tramping onwardOf feet that will not turn asideFrom the path they are pursuing,That wins at the eventide.'Tis the firm determinationOf a strong and unyielding will,Moved on by gigantic actionOf forces that cannot be still,That has won the greatest honors'Mong nations whose moral powerHave lighted liberty's beaconIn despondency's darkest hour.The mind that is sometimes darkestWhen it struggles for light and power,Breaks off the bands of thraldomAnd itself like some strong tower,Becomes the bulwark of nationsIn defense of some sacred causeThat looks toward the world's advancement,Through reign of beneficent laws.
The battle is not to the mighty,Nor the race to the fleet of foot,The peak is not reached by bounding,Nor the goal by a devious route;The problems of science and cultureHave been ages upon the way;The greatest vict'ries 'mong nationsHave not been won in a day.'Tis the steady tramping onwardOf feet that will not turn asideFrom the path they are pursuing,That wins at the eventide.'Tis the firm determinationOf a strong and unyielding will,Moved on by gigantic actionOf forces that cannot be still,That has won the greatest honors'Mong nations whose moral powerHave lighted liberty's beaconIn despondency's darkest hour.The mind that is sometimes darkestWhen it struggles for light and power,Breaks off the bands of thraldomAnd itself like some strong tower,Becomes the bulwark of nationsIn defense of some sacred causeThat looks toward the world's advancement,Through reign of beneficent laws.
There's an ogre abroad, boys,There's an ogre abroad,A three-handed monsterThat makes his abodeIn hamlet and city,In country and town,And revels in deathAs he drags people down.He's a sly old destroyer,Very loth to admitThat the snares he is usingAre fraud and deceit.He has slain and devouredMore than the sword;By all earnest peopleHe is greatly abhorred,For he leads to disease,To sorrow and death,As poison exhalesFrom his presence and breath.He fastens himselfOn bright, innocent youth,And slyly allures himFrom virtue and truth.He holds by the throatThe servants who waitTo hear his excuses;And sad is their fate,For insidious smileIs his only excuseTo victims who sufferDefeat and abuse.So sly are his movements,So stealthy his tread,Like a vampire, on bloodHe is frequently fed,While his victim, unconscious,Makes no defence;He steals mind and honorAnd good common sense.If you meet him, my boy,Beware of his grasp,For his smiles are so sweet;But on you he will claspThe shackles he carriesForever concealed,And when he secures youHe seldom will yield.He will keep you awayFrom duty and right,Destroy all your honor,Your hopes sadly blight,With promises madeWhich he cannot fulfillHe robs of contentmentAnd shackles the will.This monster has alwaysA right hand and left handThat have powers of their ownThat ought to command.If he had only theseAnd used them aright,His presence would everAfford us delight;But the third hand he hasIs a very unkind hand,For this ogre's real nameIs Little Behind Hand.Little Behind HandIs tyrant indeed,From which we would haveMankind ever freed.Little Behind HandCan seldom find work,For he stumbles in blindnessAnd gropes in the dark,He is sullen and mean,Near-sighted and sour,Ruin and trouble'Bout him constantly lower.Drive him off! Drive him off!Ere he fasten on youHis fangs of destruction,The pestilent dewThat he breathes on his victimTo deaden the senseOf his presence and power,And their sad consequence.Strike him down! Strike him down!With strong, sturdy blow,If you yield to him nowHe will soon lay you low,And when hand and footAre at his command,You will feel he has grownTo a Big Behind Hand.
There's an ogre abroad, boys,There's an ogre abroad,A three-handed monsterThat makes his abodeIn hamlet and city,In country and town,And revels in deathAs he drags people down.He's a sly old destroyer,Very loth to admitThat the snares he is usingAre fraud and deceit.He has slain and devouredMore than the sword;By all earnest peopleHe is greatly abhorred,For he leads to disease,To sorrow and death,As poison exhalesFrom his presence and breath.He fastens himselfOn bright, innocent youth,And slyly allures himFrom virtue and truth.He holds by the throatThe servants who waitTo hear his excuses;And sad is their fate,For insidious smileIs his only excuseTo victims who sufferDefeat and abuse.So sly are his movements,So stealthy his tread,Like a vampire, on bloodHe is frequently fed,While his victim, unconscious,Makes no defence;He steals mind and honorAnd good common sense.If you meet him, my boy,Beware of his grasp,For his smiles are so sweet;But on you he will claspThe shackles he carriesForever concealed,And when he secures youHe seldom will yield.He will keep you awayFrom duty and right,Destroy all your honor,Your hopes sadly blight,With promises madeWhich he cannot fulfillHe robs of contentmentAnd shackles the will.This monster has alwaysA right hand and left handThat have powers of their ownThat ought to command.If he had only theseAnd used them aright,His presence would everAfford us delight;But the third hand he hasIs a very unkind hand,For this ogre's real nameIs Little Behind Hand.Little Behind HandIs tyrant indeed,From which we would haveMankind ever freed.Little Behind HandCan seldom find work,For he stumbles in blindnessAnd gropes in the dark,He is sullen and mean,Near-sighted and sour,Ruin and trouble'Bout him constantly lower.Drive him off! Drive him off!Ere he fasten on youHis fangs of destruction,The pestilent dewThat he breathes on his victimTo deaden the senseOf his presence and power,And their sad consequence.Strike him down! Strike him down!With strong, sturdy blow,If you yield to him nowHe will soon lay you low,And when hand and footAre at his command,You will feel he has grownTo a Big Behind Hand.
The public tide is pollutedWith offal, fraud, and deceit;In ev'ry line of industryIts venomous forms we meetIn men who sneer at truth and right,Who, Honor's path have decried,That they might gain the golden calfWhose power they have deified.
The public tide is pollutedWith offal, fraud, and deceit;In ev'ry line of industryIts venomous forms we meetIn men who sneer at truth and right,Who, Honor's path have decried,That they might gain the golden calfWhose power they have deified.
I would rather dwell a hermitIn some silent peaceful wood,Where no voice of human beingEver breaks the solitude;Where babbling brook, and minstrelsyOf winged friends are heardTo join the sylvan chorusesOf leaves when gently stirred,Than live in costly splendorWith a heartless, greedy throng,Whose only thought is sordid pelfObtained by fraud and wrong.I would far prefer a cavernOn some rocky sea-girt isle,Where the constant intonationsOf the waves as they recoilWith their soughing and deep moaningFor a momentary rest,Tell of liquid matter onlyThat bespeaks itself distressed,Than to live where human bodiesBend and writhe for freedom's air,Till the heart breaks in deep sorrow,And the soul sinks in despair.I would choose a lone oasisWith one tree, one flower, one spring,One bird of sprightly plumageWith throat attuned to sing;One whisper of approvalFrom a voiceless power within;One perfect intuitionOf freedom from all sin,Than dwell 'mid throngs and plentyAnd grovel in the filthThat oft adheres to those who claimThe boundless stores of wealth.Some quiet nook in a valleyWith a canopy of leaves,Such as a forest TitanIn fantastic beauty weaves;Or some vine-embowered tangleO'ershadowing murmuring streamWhere scarce a ray of sunlightMay on its waters gleam,Is a dwelling-place more restfulTo a man by right controlledThan the courts of kings and princesAblaze with filched gold.I would not shun the haunts of menOr bustle of the world,Nor would I see progression's flagLie dormant or unfurled;If man for manhood would aspire,And less for gold and power,If noble thoughts and noble deedsEmploy each passing hour,Then should the bustle be supreme,For manhood thus would riseAbove the baser things of earthTo honors in the skies.I am not a misanthropist,Nor hater of just wealth,I love the presence of mankind,I love good-natured health,I love a true and noble soulIn woman or in man,I love a being who would notInvert God's primal planAnd keep in bondage soul and mind,Through base and false desireTo trample fellow beings down,That he may rise still higher.I know that hate deep in my soulBurns with an intense flameToward him who scourges the oppressed,And unjust power doth claim,That he may gain some subtle coignBy which to overthrowThe balance Justice ever holdsAlike for friend or foe;For such can never bless mankindBy thought or word or deed;They laugh in glee whene'er they seeTheir victim writhe and bleed.When all we teach in man is mind,And heart has no domain,Then fraud, deceit, and treacheryWill form a tyrant train,For beacon light can never comeThrough those who legislateUnless good seed has been well sownBy those who educate;But lift the soul by Sinai's lawsAnd by the Golden Rule,Then legislation will have powerThrough truths taught in the school.
I would rather dwell a hermitIn some silent peaceful wood,Where no voice of human beingEver breaks the solitude;Where babbling brook, and minstrelsyOf winged friends are heardTo join the sylvan chorusesOf leaves when gently stirred,Than live in costly splendorWith a heartless, greedy throng,Whose only thought is sordid pelfObtained by fraud and wrong.
I would far prefer a cavernOn some rocky sea-girt isle,Where the constant intonationsOf the waves as they recoilWith their soughing and deep moaningFor a momentary rest,Tell of liquid matter onlyThat bespeaks itself distressed,Than to live where human bodiesBend and writhe for freedom's air,Till the heart breaks in deep sorrow,And the soul sinks in despair.
I would choose a lone oasisWith one tree, one flower, one spring,One bird of sprightly plumageWith throat attuned to sing;One whisper of approvalFrom a voiceless power within;One perfect intuitionOf freedom from all sin,Than dwell 'mid throngs and plentyAnd grovel in the filthThat oft adheres to those who claimThe boundless stores of wealth.
Some quiet nook in a valleyWith a canopy of leaves,Such as a forest TitanIn fantastic beauty weaves;Or some vine-embowered tangleO'ershadowing murmuring streamWhere scarce a ray of sunlightMay on its waters gleam,Is a dwelling-place more restfulTo a man by right controlledThan the courts of kings and princesAblaze with filched gold.
I would not shun the haunts of menOr bustle of the world,Nor would I see progression's flagLie dormant or unfurled;If man for manhood would aspire,And less for gold and power,If noble thoughts and noble deedsEmploy each passing hour,Then should the bustle be supreme,For manhood thus would riseAbove the baser things of earthTo honors in the skies.
I am not a misanthropist,Nor hater of just wealth,I love the presence of mankind,I love good-natured health,I love a true and noble soulIn woman or in man,I love a being who would notInvert God's primal planAnd keep in bondage soul and mind,Through base and false desireTo trample fellow beings down,That he may rise still higher.
I know that hate deep in my soulBurns with an intense flameToward him who scourges the oppressed,And unjust power doth claim,That he may gain some subtle coignBy which to overthrowThe balance Justice ever holdsAlike for friend or foe;For such can never bless mankindBy thought or word or deed;They laugh in glee whene'er they seeTheir victim writhe and bleed.
When all we teach in man is mind,And heart has no domain,Then fraud, deceit, and treacheryWill form a tyrant train,For beacon light can never comeThrough those who legislateUnless good seed has been well sownBy those who educate;But lift the soul by Sinai's lawsAnd by the Golden Rule,Then legislation will have powerThrough truths taught in the school.
The world is wanting honest menWho know and dare to do aright,Whose honor brightens in the kenOf Justice's ever-searching light.
The world is wanting honest menWho know and dare to do aright,Whose honor brightens in the kenOf Justice's ever-searching light.
It is hard to tell at the dawn of dayWhat the sunset shades may bring,The plans we make may be astray,And our treasured hopes take wing.We know not what strange environmentMay dwarf our most cherished plan,Or what obstructions may be sentTo defeat our ends and aim.Though we scorn the thought that fickle FateHas Destiny in her hand,We all pay tribute at her gateAnd bow low at her command.In spite of all the powers we boastOf independent action,An intervening hand may costOur progress great detraction.Few, few there be who lack the powerTo shape their own destiny,If each will improve th' passing hourTo its full capacity.
It is hard to tell at the dawn of dayWhat the sunset shades may bring,The plans we make may be astray,And our treasured hopes take wing.
We know not what strange environmentMay dwarf our most cherished plan,Or what obstructions may be sentTo defeat our ends and aim.
Though we scorn the thought that fickle FateHas Destiny in her hand,We all pay tribute at her gateAnd bow low at her command.
In spite of all the powers we boastOf independent action,An intervening hand may costOur progress great detraction.
Few, few there be who lack the powerTo shape their own destiny,If each will improve th' passing hourTo its full capacity.