If I have faltered more or lessIn my great task of happiness;If I have moved among my raceAnd shown no glorious morning face;If beams from happy human eyesHave moved me not; if morning skies,Books, and my food, and summer rainKnocked on my sullen heart in vain:—Lord, Thy most pointed pleasure takeAnd stab my spirit broad awake;Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,Choose Thou, before that spirit die,A piercing pain, a killing sin,And to my dead heart run them in!—Robert Louis Stevenson.
There's the courage that nerves you in starting to climbThe mount of success rising sheer;And when you've slipped back there's the courage sublimeThat keeps you from shedding a tear.
These two kinds of courage, I give you my word,Are worthy of tribute—but then,You'll not reach the summit unless you've the third—The courage of try-it-again!—Roy Farrell Greene.
A ruddy drop of manly bloodThe surging sea outweighs,The world uncertain comes and goes,The lover rooted stays.I fancied he was fled,And, after many a year,Glowed unexhausted kindlinessLike daily sunrise there.My careful heart was free again,O friend, my bosom said,Through thee alone the sky is arched,Through thee the rose is red,All things through thee take nobler form,And look beyond the earth,The mill-round of our fate appearsA sun-path in thy worth.Me too thy nobleness has taughtTo master my despair;The fountains of my hidden lifeAre through thy friendship fair.—Emerson.
Joyous day! O! Smile of GodTo hearten all who toil and plod;We hail thee, Conqueror and King!We hug our golden chains and sing:"Good morning!"—Thomas Augustin Daly.
Friend after friend departs;Who hath not lost a friend?There is no union here of heartsThat finds not here an end;Were this frail world our only rest,Living or dying, none were blest.
Beyond the flight of Time,Beyond this vale of death,There surely is some blessed climeWhere life is not a breath,Nor life's affections transient fireWhose sparks fly upward to expire.—James Montgomery.
We just shake hands at meetingWith many that come nigh;We nod the head in greetingTo many that go by—
But welcome through the gatewayOur old friends and true;Then hearts leap up, and straightwayThere's open house for you,Old friends,There's open house for you!—Gerald Massey.
Some reckon their age by years,Some measure their life by art,But some of their days by the flow of their tears,And their life by the moans of their heart.The dials of earth may showThe length, not the depth of years—Few or many may come, few or many may go;But our time is best measured by tears.Ah! not by the silver grayThat creeps through the sunny hair,And not by the scenes we pass on our way—And not by the furrows the finger of CareIn forehead and face has made;Not so do we count our years;Not by the sun of the earth—but by the shadeOf our souls—and the fall of our tears.For the young are ofttimes old,Though their brow be bright and fair,While their blood beats warm, their hearts lie cold—O'er them the Springtime—but Winter is there,And the old are ofttimes young,When their hair is thin and white;And they sing in age as in youth they sung,And they laugh, for their cross was light.But bead by bead I tellThe rosary of my years,From a cross, a crown they lead—'tis well!And they are blessed with a blessing of tears.Better a day of strife,Than a century of sleep;Give me instead of a long stream of lifeThe tempest and tears of the deep.A thousand joys may foamOn the billows of all the years;But never the foam brings the brave bark home—It reaches the haven through tears.—Father Ryan.
The quality of mercy is not strained;It droppeth as the gentle rain from heavenUpon the earth beneath; it is twice blessed;It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomesThe throned monarch better than his crown;His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,The tribute to awe and majesty,Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings,But mercy is above this sceptred sway;It is enthroned in the heart of kings,It is an attribute of God himself;And earthly power doth then show likest God'sWhen mercy seasons justice. Therefore, Jew,Though justice be thy plea, consider this—That in the course of justice none of usShould see salvation: we do pray for mercy.And that same prayer doth teach us all to renderThe deeds of mercy. —Shakespeare.
Without haste! Without rest!Bind the motto to thy breast;Bear it with thee as a spell;Storm or sunshine, guard it well!Heed not the flowers that round thee bloom,Bear it onward to the tomb.
Haste not! Let no thoughtless deedMar for aye the spirit's speed!Ponder well and know the right,Onward, then, with all thy might!Haste not! Years can ne'er atoneFor one reckless action done.
Rest not! Life is sweeping by,Go and dare before you dieSomething mighty and sublimeLeave behind to conquer time!Glorious 'tis to live for aye,When these forms have passed away.
Haste not! Rest not! Calmly wait;Meekly bear the stones of fate!Duty be thy polar guide—Do the right whate'er betide!Haste not! Rest not! Conflicts past,God shall crown thy work at last.—Goethe.
They are slaves who fear to speakFor the fallen and the weak;They are slaves who will not chooseHatred, scoffing, and abuse,Rather than in silence shrinkFrom the truth they needs must think,They are slaves who dare not beIn the right with two or three.—James Russell Lowell.
How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thoughtAnd simple truth his utmost skill!
Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death,Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raiseOr vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praiseNor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make accusers great;
Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend;
—This man is freed from servile bandsOf hope to rise or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands;And having nothing, yet hath all.—Sir N. Wotton.
The splendor falls on castle wallsAnd snowy summits old in story;The long light shakes across the lakesAnd the wild cataract leaps in glory,Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O hark! O hear! how thin and clear,And thinner, clearer, farther going!O sweet and far from cliff and scarThe horns of Elfland faintly blowing!Blow, let us hear the purple glens replying;Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.
O love, they die in yon rich sky,They faint on hill or field or river;Our echoes roll from soul to soul,And grow forever and forever,Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying,And answer, echoes, answer, dying dying dying.—Alfred Tennyson.
Lead kindly light, amid the encircling gloom,Lead thou me on!The night is dark and I am far from home,Lead thou me on!Keep thou my feet; I do not ask to seeThe distant scene—one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that thouShouldst lead me on;I loved to see and choose my path, but nowLead thou me on!I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,Pride ruled my will: remember not past years.
So long thy power hath blessed me, sure it stillWill lead me on;O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent tillThe night is gone;And with the morn those angel faces smileWhich I have loved long since, and lost awhile.—John Henry (Cardinal) Newman.
"The hours I spent with thee, dear heart,Are as a string of pearls to me;I count them over, ev'ry one apart,My rosary; my rosary.
"Each hour a pearl, each pearl a prayer,To still a heart in absence wrung;I tell each bead unto the end, and there—A cross is hung!
"O memories that bless and burn!O barren gain and bitter loss!I kiss each bead, and strive at last to learnTo kiss the cross ... to kiss the cross."
A little sun, a little rain,O soft wind blowing from the West,And woods and fields are sweet againAnd Warmth within the mountain's breast.
A little love, a little trust,A soft impulse, a sudden dream,And life as dry as desert dust,Is fresher than a mountain stream.—Stopford A. Brooks.
The lopped tree in time may grow again,Most naked plants renew both fruit and flower;The sorriest wight may find release of pain,The driest soil suck in some moistening shower;Time goes by turns, and chances change by course,From foul to fair, from better hap to worse.
The sea of Fortune doth not ever flow;She draws her favors to the lowest ebb;Her tides have equal times to come and go;Her loom doth weave the fine and coarsest web;No joy so great but runneth to an end,No hap so hard but may in time amend.
Not always fall of leaf, nor ever Spring;Not endless night, yet not eternal day;The saddest birds a season find to sing;The roughest storm a calm may soon allay.Thus, with succeeding turns God tempereth all,That man may hope to rise, yet fear to fall.
A chance may win that by mischance was lost,That net that holds no great takes little fish;In some things all, in all things none are crost;Few all they need, but none have all they wish.Unmingled joys here to no man befall;Who least, hath some; who most, hath never all.—Robert Southwell.
"Master of human destinies am I!Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.Cities and fields I walk; I penetrateDeserts and seas remote, and passing byHovel and mart and palace—soon or late—I knock unbidden once at every gate!
"If sleeping, wake—if feasting, rise beforeI turn away. It is the hour of fate,And they who follow me reach every stateMortals desire, and conquer every foeSave death; but those who doubt or hesitate,Condemned to failure, penury, and woe,Seek me in vain and uselessly implore.I answer not, and I return no more."—John James Ingalls.
The star of the unconquered will,He rises to my breast;Serene and resolute and still,And calm and self-possessed.
Oh, fear not in a world like this,And thou shalt know ere long,Know how sublime a thing it is,To suffer and be strong.—H. W. Longfellow.
When I consider how my light is spentEre half my days, in this dark world and wide,And that one talent which is death to hideLodged with me useless, though my soul more bentTo serve therewith my Maker, and presentMy true account, lest he returning chide—Doth God exact day-labor, light denied?I fondly ask: But Patience to preventThat murmur soon replies: God doth not needEither man's work or his own gifts: who bestBear his mild yoke, they serve him best: His stateIs kingly; thousands at his bidding speedAnd post o'er land and ocean without rest:They also serve who only stand and wait.—John Milton.
Oh, every year hath its winter,And every year hath its rain—But a day is always comingWhen the birds go north again.
When new leaves swell in the forest,And grass springs green on the plain,And the alder's veins turn crimson—And the birds go north again.
Oh, every heart hath its sorrow,And every heart hath its pain—But a day is always comingWhen the birds go north again.
'Tis the sweetest thing to rememberIf courage be on the wane,When the cold, dark days are over—Why, the birds go north again.—Ella Higginson.
The good we meant to do—the deedsSo oft misunderstood;The thwarted good we try to do,And would do, if we could,The noble deeds we set uponAnd have accomplished none—Write them—and with them credit allThe bad we have not done.—Wilbur D. Nesbit.
Believe not each accusing tongue,As most weak persons do;But still believe that story wrongWhich ought not to be true.—Sheridan.
I like the man who faces what he mustWith step triumphant and a heart of cheer;Who fights the daily battle without fear;Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trustThat God is God—that somehow, true and justHis plans work out for mortals; not a tearIs shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,Falls from his grasp—better, with love, a crustThan living in dishonor; envies not,Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot;But, with a smile and words of hope, gives zestTo every toiler. He alone is greatWho by a life heroic conquers fate.—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
'Tis a little thing
To give a cup of water; yet its draughtOf cool refreshment, drained by fevered lips,May give a shock of pleasure to the frameMore exquisite than when nectarean juiceRenews the life of joy in happier hours.It is a little thing to speak a phraseOf common comfort which by daily useHas almost lost its sense, yet on the earOf him who thought to die unmourned 'twill fallLike choicest music, fill the glazing eyeWith gentle tears, relax the knotted handTo know the bonds of fellowship again;And shed on the departing soul a sense,More precious than the benison of friendsAbout the honored deathbed of the rich,To him who else were lonely, that anotherOf the great family is near and feels.—Sir Thomas N. Talfourd.
Come wealth or want, come good or ill,Let young and old accept their part,And bow before the awful Will,And bear it with an honest heart.Who misses or who wins the prizeGo, lose or conquer as you can;But if you fail, or if you rise,Be each, pray God, a gentleman.—William Makepeace Thackeray.
"Then let us smile when skies are gray,And laugh at stormy weather,And sing life's lonesome times away:So worry and the dreariest dayWill find an end together."
To keep my health!To do my work!To live!To see to it I grow and gain and give!Never to look behind me for an hour!To wait in weakness, and to walk in power;But always fronting onward toward the light,Always and always facing towards the right.Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray—On, with what strength I have!Back to the way!—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.
'Tis the voice of the sluggard; I heard him complain,"You have wak'd me too soon, I must slumber again."As the door on its hinges, so he on his bed,Turns his sides and his shoulders and his heavy head.
"A little more sleep, and a little more slumber,"Thus he wastes half his days, and his hours without number,And when he gets up, he sits folding his hands,Or walks about sauntering, or trifling he stands.
I passed by his garden, and saw the wild brier,The thorn and the thistle grew broader and higher;The clothes that hung on him are turning to rags;And his money still wastes till he starves or he begs.
I made him a visit, still hoping to findThat he took better care for improving his mind;He told me his dreams, talked of eating and drinking;But he scarce reads his Bible, and never loves thinking.
Said I then to my heart, "Here's a lesson for me;This man's but a picture of what I might be;But thanks to my friends for their care in my breeding,Who taught me betimes to love working and reading."—Isaac Watts.
Sunset and evening star,And one clear call for me,And may there be no moaning of the bar,When I put out to sea.
But such a tide as moving seems asleep,Too full for sound and foam,When that which drew from out the boundless deep,Turns again home.
Twilight and evening bell,And after that the dark;And may there be no sadness of farewell,When I embark.
For tho' from out our bourne of time and place,The flood may bear me far,I hope to see my Pilot face to faceWhen I have crossed the bar. —Tennyson.
When all the world is young, lad,When all the trees are green;And every goose a swan, lad,And every lass a queen;Then hey for boot and horse, lad,And around the world away;Young blood must have its course, lad,And every dog his day.
When all the world is old, lad,And all the trees are brown;And all the sport is stale, lad,And all the wheels run down;Creep home and take your place there,The spent and maimed among;God grant you find one face thereYou loved when all was young.—Charles Kingsley.
"Yes, they whose feet upon good errands runAre friends of God, with Michael of the sun;Yes, each accomplished service of the dayPaves for the feet of God a lordlier way.The souls that love and labor through all wrong,They clasp His hand and make the circle strong:They lay the deep foundations, stone by stone,And build into Eternity God's throne."—Edwin Markham.
When in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes,I all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf Heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,Desiring this man's art and that man's scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising,Haply I think on thee—and then my state(Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth) sings hymns at Heaven's gate;For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings,That then I scorn to change my state with kings.—Shakespeare.
But in the mud and scum of thingsThere always, always, something sings.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
"The Lord watch between me and thee, when we are absentone from the other."
Go thou thy way and I go mine;Apart, yet not afar;Only a thin veil hangs betweenThe Pathways where we are;And "God keep watch t'ween thee and me,"This is my prayer;He looks thy way. He looketh mine.And keeps us near.
I know not where thy road may lie,Or which way mine may be;If mine will lead through parching sands,And thine beside the sea;Yet God keeps watch 'tween thee and me.So never fear;He holds thy hand, He claspeth mine,And keeps us near.
Should wealth and fame perchance be thine,And my lot lowly be,Or you be sad or sorrowful,And glory be for me;Yet "God keeps watch 'tween thee and me,"Both be His care,One arm 'round thee and one 'round meWill keep us near.
I'll sigh sometimes to see thy face,But since this cannot be,I'll leave thee to the care of HimWho cares for thee and me."I'll keep thee both beneath my wings,"This comfort dear,One wing o'er thee and one o'er meSo we are near.
And though our paths be separateAnd thy way is not mine,Yet, coming to the mercy seat,My soul will meet with thine;And "God keep watch 'tween thee and me,"I'll whisper there.He blesseth thee, He blesseth me,And we are near.—Julia A. Baker.
I've wandered to the village, Tom, I've sat beneath the tree,Upon the schoolhouse playground, which sheltered you and me,But none were there to greet me, Tom, and few were left to know,That played with us upon the grass some twenty years ago.
The grass is just as green, Tom—barefooted boys at playWere sporting just as we did then, with spirits just as gay;But the "master" sleeps upon the hill, which, coated o'er with snow,Afforded us a sliding place, just twenty years ago.
The old schoolhouse is alter'd some, the benches are replacedBy new ones, very like the same our pen-knives had defaced,But the same old bricks are in the wall, the bell swings to and fro,It's music, just the same, dear Tom, 'twas twenty years ago.
The boys were playing the same old game, beneath the same old tree—I do forget the name just now; you've played the same with meOn that same spot; 'twas play'd with knives, by throwing so and so,The loser had a task to do, just twenty years ago.
The river's running just as still, the willows on its sideAre larger than they were, Tom, the stream appears less wide.But the grape-vine swing is ruin'd now where once we play'd the beau,And swung our sweethearts—"pretty girls"—just twenty years ago.
The spring that bubbled 'neath the hill, close by the spreading beech,Is very low—'twas once so high that we could almost reach;And kneeling down to get a drink, dear Tom, I even started so!To see how much that I am changed since twenty years ago.
Nearby the spring, upon an elm, you know I cut your name,Your sweetheart's just beneath it, Tom, and you did mine the same—Some heartless wretch had peel'd the bark, 'twas dying sure but slow,Just as the one whose name was cut, died twenty years ago.
My lids have long been dry, Tom, but tears came in my eyes,I thought of her I loved so well—those early broken ties—I visited the old churchyard, and took some flowers to strewUpon the graves of those we loved, some twenty years ago.
Some are in the churchyard laid, some sleep beneath the sea,But few are left of our old class, excepting you and me,And when our time is come, Tom, and we are call'd to go,I hope they'll lay us where we played just twenty years ago.—A. J. Gault.
'Tis not the weight of jewel or plate,Or the fondle of silk or fur;'Tis the spirit in which the gift is rich,As the gifts of the wise ones were;And we are not told whose gift was gold,Or whose was the gift of myrrh.