Chapter 2

Behind him lay the gray Azores,Behind the Gates of Hercules;Before him not the ghost of shores,Before him only shoreless seas.The good mate said: "Now, we must pray,For lo! the very stars aregone,Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?""Why say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'""My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak."The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say at break of day,'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget their way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—"He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!"They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.He curls his lip, he lies in wait,With lifted teeth, as if to bite!Brave Admiral, say but one good word.What shall we do when hope is gone?"The words leapt as a leaping sword,"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,And peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then a speck—A light! A light! A light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn:He gained a world; he gave that worldIts grandest lesson: "On, and on!"—Joaquin Miller.

Behind him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores,

Before him only shoreless seas.

The good mate said: "Now, we must pray,

For lo! the very stars aregone,

Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?"

"Why say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;My men grow ghastly wan and weak."The stout mate thought of home; a sprayOf salt wave washed his swarthy cheek."What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,If we sight naught but seas at dawn?""Why, you shall say at break of day,'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly wan and weak."

The stout mate thought of home; a spray

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why, you shall say at break of day,

'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,Until at last the blanched mate said:"Why, now not even God would knowShould I and all my men fall dead.These very winds forget their way,For God from these dread seas is gone.Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—"He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said:

"Why, now not even God would know

Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,

For God from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—"

He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.He curls his lip, he lies in wait,With lifted teeth, as if to bite!Brave Admiral, say but one good word.What shall we do when hope is gone?"The words leapt as a leaping sword,"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:

"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.

He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Admiral, say but one good word.

What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt as a leaping sword,

"Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,And peered through darkness. Ah, that nightOf all dark nights! And then a speck—A light! A light! A light!It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!It grew to be Time's burst of dawn:He gained a world; he gave that worldIts grandest lesson: "On, and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night

Of all dark nights! And then a speck—

A light! A light! A light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn:

He gained a world; he gave that world

Its grandest lesson: "On, and on!"

—Joaquin Miller.

———

The Son of God goes forth to war,A kingly crown to gain;His blood-red banner streams afar;Who follows in his train.Who best can drink His cup of woe,And triumph over pain,Who patient bears His cross below—He follows in His train.A glorious band, the chosen few,On whom the Spirit came;Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,And mocked the cross and flame.They climbed the dizzy steep to heavenThrough peril, toil and pain;O God! to us may grace be givenTo follow in their train!—Reginald Heber.

The Son of God goes forth to war,A kingly crown to gain;His blood-red banner streams afar;Who follows in his train.

The Son of God goes forth to war,

A kingly crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar;

Who follows in his train.

Who best can drink His cup of woe,And triumph over pain,Who patient bears His cross below—He follows in His train.

Who best can drink His cup of woe,

And triumph over pain,

Who patient bears His cross below—

He follows in His train.

A glorious band, the chosen few,On whom the Spirit came;Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,And mocked the cross and flame.

A glorious band, the chosen few,

On whom the Spirit came;

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,

And mocked the cross and flame.

They climbed the dizzy steep to heavenThrough peril, toil and pain;O God! to us may grace be givenTo follow in their train!

They climbed the dizzy steep to heaven

Through peril, toil and pain;

O God! to us may grace be given

To follow in their train!

—Reginald Heber.

———

Did you tackle that trouble that came your wayWith a resolute heart and cheerful,Or hide your face from the light of dayWith a craven soul and fearful?O, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce,Or a trouble is what you make it,And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,But only—how did you take it?You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?Come up with a smiling face.It's nothing against you to fall down flat,But to lie there—that's disgrace.The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;Be proud of your blackened eye!It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;It's how did you fight—and why?And though you be done to the death, what then?If you battled the best you could.If you played your part in the world of men,Why, the Critic will call it good.Death comes with a crawl or comes with a pounce,And whether he's slow or spry,It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,But only—how did you die?—Edmund Vance Cooke.

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful,

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

O, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce,

Or a trouble is what you make it,

And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,

But only—how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?Come up with a smiling face.It's nothing against you to fall down flat,But to lie there—that's disgrace.The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;Be proud of your blackened eye!It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;It's how did you fight—and why?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there—that's disgrace.

The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;

Be proud of your blackened eye!

It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;

It's how did you fight—and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then?If you battled the best you could.If you played your part in the world of men,Why, the Critic will call it good.Death comes with a crawl or comes with a pounce,And whether he's slow or spry,It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,But only—how did you die?

And though you be done to the death, what then?

If you battled the best you could.

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl or comes with a pounce,

And whether he's slow or spry,

It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,

But only—how did you die?

—Edmund Vance Cooke.

———

That which he knew he uttered,Conviction made him strong;And with undaunted courageHe faced and fought the wrong.No power on earth could silence himWhom love and faith made brave;And though four hundred years have goneMen strew with flowers his grave.A frail child born to poverty,A German miner's son;A poor monk searching in his cell,What honors he has won!The nations crown him faithful,A man whom truth made free;God give us for these easier timesMore men as real as he!—Marianne Farningham.

That which he knew he uttered,

Conviction made him strong;

And with undaunted courage

He faced and fought the wrong.

No power on earth could silence him

Whom love and faith made brave;

And though four hundred years have gone

Men strew with flowers his grave.

A frail child born to poverty,A German miner's son;A poor monk searching in his cell,What honors he has won!The nations crown him faithful,A man whom truth made free;God give us for these easier timesMore men as real as he!

A frail child born to poverty,

A German miner's son;

A poor monk searching in his cell,

What honors he has won!

The nations crown him faithful,

A man whom truth made free;

God give us for these easier times

More men as real as he!

—Marianne Farningham.

———

Flung to the heedless winds,Or on the waters cast,The martyrs' ashes, watched,Shall gathered be at last;And from that scattered dust,Around us and abroad,Shall spring a plenteous seedOf witnesses for God.The Father hath receivedTheir latest living breath;And vain is Satan's boastOf victory in their death;Still, still, though dead, they speak,And, trumpet-tongued, proclaimTo many a wakening land,The one availing name.—Martin Luther, tr. by John A. Messenger.

Flung to the heedless winds,

Or on the waters cast,

The martyrs' ashes, watched,

Shall gathered be at last;

And from that scattered dust,

Around us and abroad,

Shall spring a plenteous seed

Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath receivedTheir latest living breath;And vain is Satan's boastOf victory in their death;Still, still, though dead, they speak,And, trumpet-tongued, proclaimTo many a wakening land,The one availing name.

The Father hath received

Their latest living breath;

And vain is Satan's boast

Of victory in their death;

Still, still, though dead, they speak,

And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim

To many a wakening land,

The one availing name.

—Martin Luther, tr. by John A. Messenger.

———

Stainless soldier on the walls,Knowing this—and knows no more—Whoever fights, whoever falls,Justice conquers evermore,Justice after as before;And he who battles on her side,God, though he were ten times slain,Crowns him victor glorified,Victor over death and pain.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Stainless soldier on the walls,

Knowing this—and knows no more—

Whoever fights, whoever falls,

Justice conquers evermore,

Justice after as before;

And he who battles on her side,

God, though he were ten times slain,

Crowns him victor glorified,

Victor over death and pain.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

The man is thought a knave, or fool,Or bigot, plotting crime,Who, for the advancement of his kind,Is wiser than his time.For him the hemlock shall distil;For him the axe be bared;For him the gibbet shall be built;For him the stake prepared.Him shall the scorn and wrath of menPursue with deadly aim;And malice, envy, spite, and lies,Shall desecrate his name.But Truth shall conquer at the last,For round and round we run;And ever the Right comes uppermost,And ever is Justice done.Pace through thy cell, old Socrates,Cheerily to and fro;Trust to the impulse of thy soul,And let the poison flow.They may shatter to earth the lamp of clayThat holds a light divine,But they cannot quench the fire of thoughtBy any such deadly wine.They cannot blot thy spoken wordsFrom the memory of manBy all the poison ever was brewedSince time its course began.To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored,For round and round we run,And ever the Truth comes uppermost,And ever is Justice done.Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite;Be wiser than thy peers;Augment the range of human power,And trust to coming years.They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed,And load thee with dispraise;Thou wert born five hundred years too soonFor the comfort of thy days;But not too soon for human kind.Time hath reward in store;And the demons of our sires becomeThe saints that we adore.The blind can see, the slave is lord,So round and round we run;And ever the Wrong is proved to be wrongAnd ever is Justice done.Keep, Galileo, to thy thought,And nerve thy soul to bear;They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wringFrom the pangs of thy despair;They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hideThe sun's meridian glow;The heel of a priest may tread thee downAnd a tyrant work thee woe;But never a truth has been destroyed;They may curse it and call it crime;Pervert and betray, or slander and slayIts teachers for a time.But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,As round and round we run;And the Truth shall ever come uppermost,And Justice shall be done.And live there now such men as these—With thoughts like the great of old?Many have died in their misery,And left their thought untold;And many live, and are ranked as mad,And are placed in the cold world's ban,For sending their bright, far-seeing soulsThree centuries in the van.They toil in penury and grief,Unknown, if not maligned;Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scornOf the meanest of mankind!But yet the world goes round and round,And the genial seasons run;And ever the Truth comes uppermost,And ever is Justice done.—Charles Mackay.

The man is thought a knave, or fool,

Or bigot, plotting crime,

Who, for the advancement of his kind,

Is wiser than his time.

For him the hemlock shall distil;

For him the axe be bared;

For him the gibbet shall be built;

For him the stake prepared.

Him shall the scorn and wrath of men

Pursue with deadly aim;

And malice, envy, spite, and lies,

Shall desecrate his name.

But Truth shall conquer at the last,

For round and round we run;

And ever the Right comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done.

Pace through thy cell, old Socrates,Cheerily to and fro;Trust to the impulse of thy soul,And let the poison flow.They may shatter to earth the lamp of clayThat holds a light divine,But they cannot quench the fire of thoughtBy any such deadly wine.They cannot blot thy spoken wordsFrom the memory of manBy all the poison ever was brewedSince time its course began.To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored,For round and round we run,And ever the Truth comes uppermost,And ever is Justice done.

Pace through thy cell, old Socrates,

Cheerily to and fro;

Trust to the impulse of thy soul,

And let the poison flow.

They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay

That holds a light divine,

But they cannot quench the fire of thought

By any such deadly wine.

They cannot blot thy spoken words

From the memory of man

By all the poison ever was brewed

Since time its course began.

To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored,

For round and round we run,

And ever the Truth comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done.

Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite;Be wiser than thy peers;Augment the range of human power,And trust to coming years.They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed,And load thee with dispraise;Thou wert born five hundred years too soonFor the comfort of thy days;But not too soon for human kind.Time hath reward in store;And the demons of our sires becomeThe saints that we adore.The blind can see, the slave is lord,So round and round we run;And ever the Wrong is proved to be wrongAnd ever is Justice done.

Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite;

Be wiser than thy peers;

Augment the range of human power,

And trust to coming years.

They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed,

And load thee with dispraise;

Thou wert born five hundred years too soon

For the comfort of thy days;

But not too soon for human kind.

Time hath reward in store;

And the demons of our sires become

The saints that we adore.

The blind can see, the slave is lord,

So round and round we run;

And ever the Wrong is proved to be wrong

And ever is Justice done.

Keep, Galileo, to thy thought,And nerve thy soul to bear;They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wringFrom the pangs of thy despair;They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hideThe sun's meridian glow;The heel of a priest may tread thee downAnd a tyrant work thee woe;But never a truth has been destroyed;They may curse it and call it crime;Pervert and betray, or slander and slayIts teachers for a time.But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,As round and round we run;And the Truth shall ever come uppermost,And Justice shall be done.

Keep, Galileo, to thy thought,

And nerve thy soul to bear;

They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring

From the pangs of thy despair;

They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide

The sun's meridian glow;

The heel of a priest may tread thee down

And a tyrant work thee woe;

But never a truth has been destroyed;

They may curse it and call it crime;

Pervert and betray, or slander and slay

Its teachers for a time.

But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,

As round and round we run;

And the Truth shall ever come uppermost,

And Justice shall be done.

And live there now such men as these—With thoughts like the great of old?Many have died in their misery,And left their thought untold;And many live, and are ranked as mad,And are placed in the cold world's ban,For sending their bright, far-seeing soulsThree centuries in the van.They toil in penury and grief,Unknown, if not maligned;Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scornOf the meanest of mankind!But yet the world goes round and round,And the genial seasons run;And ever the Truth comes uppermost,And ever is Justice done.

And live there now such men as these—

With thoughts like the great of old?

Many have died in their misery,

And left their thought untold;

And many live, and are ranked as mad,

And are placed in the cold world's ban,

For sending their bright, far-seeing souls

Three centuries in the van.

They toil in penury and grief,

Unknown, if not maligned;

Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn

Of the meanest of mankind!

But yet the world goes round and round,

And the genial seasons run;

And ever the Truth comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done.

—Charles Mackay.

———

We cannot kindle when we willThe fire which in the heart resides.The spirit bloweth and is still;In mystery our soul abides:But tasks in hours of insight willedCan be through hours of gloom fulfilled.With aching hands and bleeding feetWe dig and heap, lay stone on stone;We bear the burden and the heatOf the long day, and wish 'twere done.Not till the hours of light return,All we have built do we discern.—Matthew Arnold.

We cannot kindle when we will

The fire which in the heart resides.

The spirit bloweth and is still;

In mystery our soul abides:

But tasks in hours of insight willed

Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

With aching hands and bleeding feetWe dig and heap, lay stone on stone;We bear the burden and the heatOf the long day, and wish 'twere done.Not till the hours of light return,All we have built do we discern.

With aching hands and bleeding feet

We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;

We bear the burden and the heat

Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.

Not till the hours of light return,

All we have built do we discern.

—Matthew Arnold.

———

What makes a hero?—not success, not fame,Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaimOf glutted avarice—caps tossed up in air,Or pen of journalist with flourish fair;Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name—These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,Or true reward; for never yet did theseRefresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.What makes a hero?—An heroic mind,Expressed in action, in endurance proved.And if there be preëminence of right,Derived through pain well suffered, to the heightOf rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmovedNot toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,But worse—ingratitude and poisonous darts,Launched by the country he had served and loved.This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,This, in the strength of silence to endure,A dignity to noble deeds impartsBeyond the gauds and trappings of renown;This is the hero's complement and crown;This missed, one struggle had been wanting still—One glorious triumph of the heroic will,One self-approval in his heart of hearts.—Henry Taylor.

What makes a hero?—not success, not fame,

Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim

Of glutted avarice—caps tossed up in air,

Or pen of journalist with flourish fair;

Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name—

These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;

His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,

Or true reward; for never yet did these

Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.

What makes a hero?—An heroic mind,

Expressed in action, in endurance proved.

And if there be preëminence of right,

Derived through pain well suffered, to the height

Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved

Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind,

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse—ingratitude and poisonous darts,

Launched by the country he had served and loved.

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,

This, in the strength of silence to endure,

A dignity to noble deeds imparts

Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown;

This is the hero's complement and crown;

This missed, one struggle had been wanting still—

One glorious triumph of the heroic will,

One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

—Henry Taylor.

———

As the bird trims her to the galeI trim myself to the storm of time;I man the rudder, reef the sail,Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime;"Lowly faithful banish fear,Right onward drive unharmed;The port, well worth the cruise, is near,And every wave is charmed."—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

As the bird trims her to the gale

I trim myself to the storm of time;

I man the rudder, reef the sail,

Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime;

"Lowly faithful banish fear,

Right onward drive unharmed;

The port, well worth the cruise, is near,

And every wave is charmed."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

The world wants men—large-hearted, manly men;Men who shall join its chorus and prolongThe psalm of labor, and the psalm of love.The times want scholars—scholars who shall shapeThe doubtful destinies of dubious years,And land the ark that bears our country's goodSafe on some peaceful Ararat at last.The age wants heroes—heroes who shall dareTo struggle in the solid ranks of truth;To clutch the monster error by the throat;To bear opinion to a loftier seat;To blot the era of oppression out,And lead a universal freedom on.And heaven wants souls—fresh and capacious souls;To taste its raptures, and expand, like flowers,Beneath the glory of its central sun.It wants fresh souls—not lean and shrivelled ones;It wants fresh souls, my brother, give it thine.If thou indeed wilt be what scholars should;If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt striveTo help thy fellow and exalt thyself,Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors;Thy heart, at last, shall seem a thousand hearts—Each single heart with myriad raptures filled—While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

The world wants men—large-hearted, manly men;

Men who shall join its chorus and prolong

The psalm of labor, and the psalm of love.

The times want scholars—scholars who shall shape

The doubtful destinies of dubious years,

And land the ark that bears our country's good

Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.

The age wants heroes—heroes who shall dare

To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;

To clutch the monster error by the throat;

To bear opinion to a loftier seat;

To blot the era of oppression out,

And lead a universal freedom on.

And heaven wants souls—fresh and capacious souls;

To taste its raptures, and expand, like flowers,

Beneath the glory of its central sun.

It wants fresh souls—not lean and shrivelled ones;

It wants fresh souls, my brother, give it thine.

If thou indeed wilt be what scholars should;

If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive

To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,

Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors;

Thy heart, at last, shall seem a thousand hearts—

Each single heart with myriad raptures filled—

While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,

Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

———

Blessed are they who die for God,And earn the martyr's crown of light;Yet he who lives for God may beA greater conqueror in his sight.

Blessed are they who die for God,

And earn the martyr's crown of light;

Yet he who lives for God may be

A greater conqueror in his sight.

———

Better to stem with heart and handThe roaring tide of life than lie,Unmindful, on its flowery strand,Of God's occasions drifting by!

Better to stem with heart and hand

The roaring tide of life than lie,

Unmindful, on its flowery strand,

Of God's occasions drifting by!

———

Truth will prevail, though men abhorThe glory of its light;And wage exterminating warAnd put all foes to flight.Though trodden under foot of men,Truth from the dust will spring,And from the press—the lip—the pen—In tones of thunder ring.Beware—beware, ye who resistThe light that beams around,Lest, ere you look through error's mist,Truth strike you to the ground.—D. C. Colesworthy.

Truth will prevail, though men abhorThe glory of its light;And wage exterminating warAnd put all foes to flight.

Truth will prevail, though men abhor

The glory of its light;

And wage exterminating war

And put all foes to flight.

Though trodden under foot of men,Truth from the dust will spring,And from the press—the lip—the pen—In tones of thunder ring.

Though trodden under foot of men,

Truth from the dust will spring,

And from the press—the lip—the pen—

In tones of thunder ring.

Beware—beware, ye who resistThe light that beams around,Lest, ere you look through error's mist,Truth strike you to the ground.

Beware—beware, ye who resist

The light that beams around,

Lest, ere you look through error's mist,

Truth strike you to the ground.

—D. C. Colesworthy.

———

Nay, now, if these things that you yearn to teachBear wisdom, in your judgment, rich and strong,Give voice to them though no man heed your speech,Since right is right though all the worldgowrong.The proof that you believe what you declareIs that you still stand firm though throngs pass by;Rather cry truth a lifetime to void airThan flatter listening millions with one lie!—Edgar Fawcett.

Nay, now, if these things that you yearn to teachBear wisdom, in your judgment, rich and strong,Give voice to them though no man heed your speech,Since right is right though all the worldgowrong.

Nay, now, if these things that you yearn to teach

Bear wisdom, in your judgment, rich and strong,

Give voice to them though no man heed your speech,

Since right is right though all the worldgowrong.

The proof that you believe what you declareIs that you still stand firm though throngs pass by;Rather cry truth a lifetime to void airThan flatter listening millions with one lie!

The proof that you believe what you declare

Is that you still stand firm though throngs pass by;

Rather cry truth a lifetime to void air

Than flatter listening millions with one lie!

—Edgar Fawcett.

———

Teach me the truth, Lord, though it put to flightMy cherished dreams and fondest fancy's play;Give me to know the darkness from the light,The night from day.Teach me the truth, Lord, though my heart may breakIn casting out the falsehood for the true;Help me to take my shattered life and makeIts actions new.Teach me the truth, Lord, though my feet may fearThe rocky path that opens out to me;Rough it may be, but let the way be clearThat leads to thee.Teach me the truth, Lord. When false creeds decay,When man-made dogmas vanish with the night,Then, Lord, on thee my darkened soul shall stay,Thou living Light.—Frances Lockwood Green.

Teach me the truth, Lord, though it put to flightMy cherished dreams and fondest fancy's play;Give me to know the darkness from the light,The night from day.

Teach me the truth, Lord, though it put to flight

My cherished dreams and fondest fancy's play;

Give me to know the darkness from the light,

The night from day.

Teach me the truth, Lord, though my heart may breakIn casting out the falsehood for the true;Help me to take my shattered life and makeIts actions new.

Teach me the truth, Lord, though my heart may break

In casting out the falsehood for the true;

Help me to take my shattered life and make

Its actions new.

Teach me the truth, Lord, though my feet may fearThe rocky path that opens out to me;Rough it may be, but let the way be clearThat leads to thee.

Teach me the truth, Lord, though my feet may fear

The rocky path that opens out to me;

Rough it may be, but let the way be clear

That leads to thee.

Teach me the truth, Lord. When false creeds decay,When man-made dogmas vanish with the night,Then, Lord, on thee my darkened soul shall stay,Thou living Light.

Teach me the truth, Lord. When false creeds decay,

When man-made dogmas vanish with the night,

Then, Lord, on thee my darkened soul shall stay,

Thou living Light.

—Frances Lockwood Green.

———

It takes great strength to trainTo modern service your ancestral brain;To lift the weight of the unnumbered yearsOf dead men's habits, methods, and ideas;To hold that back with one hand, and supportWith the other the weak steps of the new thought.It takes great strength to bring your life up squareWith your accepted thought and hold it there;Resisting the inertia that drags backFrom new attempts to the old habit's track.It is so easy to drift back, to sink;So hard to live abreast of what you think.It takes great strength to live where you belongWhen other people think that you are wrong;People you love, and who love you, and whoseApproval is a pleasure you would choose.To bear this pressure and succeed at lengthIn living your belief—well, it takes strength,And courage, too. But what does courage meanSave strength to help you face a pain foreseen?Courage to undertake this lifelong strainOf setting yours against your grand-sire's brain;Dangerous risk of walking lone and freeOut of the easy paths that used to be,And the fierce pain of hurting those we loveWhen love meets truth, and truth must ride above.But the best courage man has ever shownIs daring to cut loose and think alone.Dark are the unlit chambers of clear spaceWhere light shines back from no reflecting face.Our sun's wide glare, our heaven's shining blue,We owe to fog and dust they fumble through;And our rich wisdom that we treasure soShines from the thousand things that we don't know.But to think new—it takes a courage grimAs led Columbus over the world's rim.To think it cost some courage. And to go—Try it. It takes every power you know.It takes great love to stir the human heartTo live beyond the others and apart.A love that is not shallow, is not small,Is not for one or two, but for them all.Love that can wound love for its higher need;Love that can leave love, though the heart may bleed;Love that can lose love, family and friend,Yet steadfastly live, loving, to the end.A love that asks no answer, that can liveMoved by one burning, deathless force—to give.Love, strength, and courage; courage, strength, and love.The heroes of all time are built thereof.—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

It takes great strength to train

To modern service your ancestral brain;

To lift the weight of the unnumbered years

Of dead men's habits, methods, and ideas;

To hold that back with one hand, and support

With the other the weak steps of the new thought.

It takes great strength to bring your life up squareWith your accepted thought and hold it there;Resisting the inertia that drags backFrom new attempts to the old habit's track.It is so easy to drift back, to sink;So hard to live abreast of what you think.

It takes great strength to bring your life up square

With your accepted thought and hold it there;

Resisting the inertia that drags back

From new attempts to the old habit's track.

It is so easy to drift back, to sink;

So hard to live abreast of what you think.

It takes great strength to live where you belongWhen other people think that you are wrong;People you love, and who love you, and whoseApproval is a pleasure you would choose.To bear this pressure and succeed at lengthIn living your belief—well, it takes strength,

It takes great strength to live where you belong

When other people think that you are wrong;

People you love, and who love you, and whose

Approval is a pleasure you would choose.

To bear this pressure and succeed at length

In living your belief—well, it takes strength,

And courage, too. But what does courage meanSave strength to help you face a pain foreseen?Courage to undertake this lifelong strainOf setting yours against your grand-sire's brain;Dangerous risk of walking lone and freeOut of the easy paths that used to be,And the fierce pain of hurting those we loveWhen love meets truth, and truth must ride above.

And courage, too. But what does courage mean

Save strength to help you face a pain foreseen?

Courage to undertake this lifelong strain

Of setting yours against your grand-sire's brain;

Dangerous risk of walking lone and free

Out of the easy paths that used to be,

And the fierce pain of hurting those we love

When love meets truth, and truth must ride above.

But the best courage man has ever shownIs daring to cut loose and think alone.Dark are the unlit chambers of clear spaceWhere light shines back from no reflecting face.Our sun's wide glare, our heaven's shining blue,We owe to fog and dust they fumble through;And our rich wisdom that we treasure soShines from the thousand things that we don't know.But to think new—it takes a courage grimAs led Columbus over the world's rim.To think it cost some courage. And to go—Try it. It takes every power you know.

But the best courage man has ever shown

Is daring to cut loose and think alone.

Dark are the unlit chambers of clear space

Where light shines back from no reflecting face.

Our sun's wide glare, our heaven's shining blue,

We owe to fog and dust they fumble through;

And our rich wisdom that we treasure so

Shines from the thousand things that we don't know.

But to think new—it takes a courage grim

As led Columbus over the world's rim.

To think it cost some courage. And to go—

Try it. It takes every power you know.

It takes great love to stir the human heartTo live beyond the others and apart.A love that is not shallow, is not small,Is not for one or two, but for them all.Love that can wound love for its higher need;Love that can leave love, though the heart may bleed;Love that can lose love, family and friend,Yet steadfastly live, loving, to the end.A love that asks no answer, that can liveMoved by one burning, deathless force—to give.Love, strength, and courage; courage, strength, and love.The heroes of all time are built thereof.

It takes great love to stir the human heart

To live beyond the others and apart.

A love that is not shallow, is not small,

Is not for one or two, but for them all.

Love that can wound love for its higher need;

Love that can leave love, though the heart may bleed;

Love that can lose love, family and friend,

Yet steadfastly live, loving, to the end.

A love that asks no answer, that can live

Moved by one burning, deathless force—to give.

Love, strength, and courage; courage, strength, and love.

The heroes of all time are built thereof.

—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

———

O star of truth down shiningThrough clouds of doubt and fear,I ask but 'neath your guidanceMy pathway may appear.However long the journeyHow hard soe'er it be,Though I be lone and weary,Lead on, I'll follow thee.I know thy blessed radianceCan never lead astray,However ancient customMay trend some other way.E'en if through untried deserts,Or over trackless sea,Though I be lone and weary,Lead on, I'll follow thee.The bleeding feet of martyrsThy toilsome road have trod.But fires of human passionMay light the way to God.Then, though my feet should falter,While I thy beams can see,Though I be lone and weary,Lead on, I'll follow thee.Though loving friends forsake me,Or plead with me in tears—Though angry foes may threatenTo shake my soul with fears—Still to my high allegianceI must not faithless be.Through life or death, forever,Lead on, I'll follow thee.—Minot J. Savage.

O star of truth down shining

Through clouds of doubt and fear,

I ask but 'neath your guidance

My pathway may appear.

However long the journey

How hard soe'er it be,

Though I be lone and weary,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

I know thy blessed radianceCan never lead astray,However ancient customMay trend some other way.E'en if through untried deserts,Or over trackless sea,Though I be lone and weary,Lead on, I'll follow thee.

I know thy blessed radiance

Can never lead astray,

However ancient custom

May trend some other way.

E'en if through untried deserts,

Or over trackless sea,

Though I be lone and weary,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

The bleeding feet of martyrsThy toilsome road have trod.But fires of human passionMay light the way to God.Then, though my feet should falter,While I thy beams can see,Though I be lone and weary,Lead on, I'll follow thee.

The bleeding feet of martyrs

Thy toilsome road have trod.

But fires of human passion

May light the way to God.

Then, though my feet should falter,

While I thy beams can see,

Though I be lone and weary,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

Though loving friends forsake me,Or plead with me in tears—Though angry foes may threatenTo shake my soul with fears—Still to my high allegianceI must not faithless be.Through life or death, forever,Lead on, I'll follow thee.

Though loving friends forsake me,

Or plead with me in tears—

Though angry foes may threaten

To shake my soul with fears—

Still to my high allegiance

I must not faithless be.

Through life or death, forever,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

—Minot J. Savage.

———

Not ours nobility of this world's givingGranted by monarchs of some earthly throne;Not this life only which is worth the living,Nor honor here worth striving for alone.Princes are we, and of a line right royal;Heirs are we of a glorious realm above;Yet bound to service humble, true, and loyal,For thus constraineth us our Monarch's love.And looking to the joy that lies before us,The crown held out to our once fallen race;Led by the light that ever shineth o'er us,Man is restored to nature's noblest place.Noblesse oblige—(our very watchword be it!)To raise the fallen from this low estate,To boldly combat wrong whene'er we see it,To render good for evil, love for hate.Noblesse oblige—to deeds of valiant daringIn alien lands which other lords obey,And into farthest climes our standard bearing,To lead them captive 'neath our Master's sway.Noblesse oblige—that, grudging not our treasure,Nor seeking any portion to withhold,We freely give it, without stint or measure,Whate'er it be—our talents, time, or gold.Noblesse oblige—that, looking upward ever,We serve our King with courage, faith, and love,Till, through that grace which can from death deliver,We claim our noble heritage above!

Not ours nobility of this world's givingGranted by monarchs of some earthly throne;Not this life only which is worth the living,Nor honor here worth striving for alone.

Not ours nobility of this world's giving

Granted by monarchs of some earthly throne;

Not this life only which is worth the living,

Nor honor here worth striving for alone.

Princes are we, and of a line right royal;Heirs are we of a glorious realm above;Yet bound to service humble, true, and loyal,For thus constraineth us our Monarch's love.

Princes are we, and of a line right royal;

Heirs are we of a glorious realm above;

Yet bound to service humble, true, and loyal,

For thus constraineth us our Monarch's love.

And looking to the joy that lies before us,The crown held out to our once fallen race;Led by the light that ever shineth o'er us,Man is restored to nature's noblest place.

And looking to the joy that lies before us,

The crown held out to our once fallen race;

Led by the light that ever shineth o'er us,

Man is restored to nature's noblest place.

Noblesse oblige—(our very watchword be it!)To raise the fallen from this low estate,To boldly combat wrong whene'er we see it,To render good for evil, love for hate.

Noblesse oblige—(our very watchword be it!)

To raise the fallen from this low estate,

To boldly combat wrong whene'er we see it,

To render good for evil, love for hate.

Noblesse oblige—to deeds of valiant daringIn alien lands which other lords obey,And into farthest climes our standard bearing,To lead them captive 'neath our Master's sway.

Noblesse oblige—to deeds of valiant daring

In alien lands which other lords obey,

And into farthest climes our standard bearing,

To lead them captive 'neath our Master's sway.

Noblesse oblige—that, grudging not our treasure,Nor seeking any portion to withhold,We freely give it, without stint or measure,Whate'er it be—our talents, time, or gold.

Noblesse oblige—that, grudging not our treasure,

Nor seeking any portion to withhold,

We freely give it, without stint or measure,

Whate'er it be—our talents, time, or gold.

Noblesse oblige—that, looking upward ever,We serve our King with courage, faith, and love,Till, through that grace which can from death deliver,We claim our noble heritage above!

Noblesse oblige—that, looking upward ever,

We serve our King with courage, faith, and love,

Till, through that grace which can from death deliver,

We claim our noble heritage above!

———

The winds that once the Argo boreHave died by Neptune's ruined shrines,And her hull is the drift of the deep sea floor,Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.You may seek her crew in every isle,Fair in the foam of Ægean seas,But out of their sleep no charm can wileJason and Orpheus and Hercules.And Priam's voice is heard no moreBy windy Illium's sea-built walls;From the washing wave and the lonely shoreNo wail goes up as Hector falls.On Ida's mount is the shining snow,But Jove has gone from its brow away,And red on the plain the poppies growWhere Greek and Trojan fought that day.Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?Are the gleaming snows and the poppies redAll that is left of the brave of yore?Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,Far in the young world's misty dawn?Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,And catch the light of their glorious eyes,And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.Whenever a noble deed is done,There are the souls of our heroes stirred;Whenever a field for truth is won,There are our heroes' voices heard.Their armor rings in a fairer fieldThan Greek or Trojan ever trod,For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,And the light above them the smile of God!So, in his Isle of calm delight,Jason may dream the years away,But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,And the world is a braver world to-day.—Edna Dean Proctor.

The winds that once the Argo bore

Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines,

And her hull is the drift of the deep sea floor,

Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.

You may seek her crew in every isle,

Fair in the foam of Ægean seas,

But out of their sleep no charm can wile

Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.

And Priam's voice is heard no moreBy windy Illium's sea-built walls;From the washing wave and the lonely shoreNo wail goes up as Hector falls.On Ida's mount is the shining snow,But Jove has gone from its brow away,And red on the plain the poppies growWhere Greek and Trojan fought that day.

And Priam's voice is heard no more

By windy Illium's sea-built walls;

From the washing wave and the lonely shore

No wail goes up as Hector falls.

On Ida's mount is the shining snow,

But Jove has gone from its brow away,

And red on the plain the poppies grow

Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?Are the gleaming snows and the poppies redAll that is left of the brave of yore?Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,Far in the young world's misty dawn?Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?

Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red

All that is left of the brave of yore?

Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,

Far in the young world's misty dawn?

Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,And catch the light of their glorious eyes,And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.Whenever a noble deed is done,There are the souls of our heroes stirred;Whenever a field for truth is won,There are our heroes' voices heard.

Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;

Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,

And catch the light of their glorious eyes,

And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.

Whenever a noble deed is done,

There are the souls of our heroes stirred;

Whenever a field for truth is won,

There are our heroes' voices heard.

Their armor rings in a fairer fieldThan Greek or Trojan ever trod,For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,And the light above them the smile of God!So, in his Isle of calm delight,Jason may dream the years away,But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,And the world is a braver world to-day.

Their armor rings in a fairer field

Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,

For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,

And the light above them the smile of God!

So, in his Isle of calm delight,

Jason may dream the years away,

But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,

And the world is a braver world to-day.

—Edna Dean Proctor.

———

The hero is not fed on sweets,Daily his own heart he eats;Chambers of the great are jails,And head winds right for royal sails.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The hero is not fed on sweets,Daily his own heart he eats;Chambers of the great are jails,And head winds right for royal sails.

The hero is not fed on sweets,

Daily his own heart he eats;

Chambers of the great are jails,

And head winds right for royal sails.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

They seemed to die on battle-field,To die with justice, truth, and law;The bloody corpse, the broken shield,Were all that senseless folly saw.But, like Antæus from the turf,They sprung refreshed, to strive again,Where'er the savage and the serfRise to the rank of men.They seemed to die by sword and fire,Their voices hushed in endless sleep;Well might the noblest cause expireBeneath that mangled, smouldering heap;Yet that wan band, unarmed, defiedThe legions of their pagan foes;And in the truths they testified,From out the ashes rose.

They seemed to die on battle-field,

To die with justice, truth, and law;

The bloody corpse, the broken shield,

Were all that senseless folly saw.

But, like Antæus from the turf,

They sprung refreshed, to strive again,

Where'er the savage and the serf

Rise to the rank of men.

They seemed to die by sword and fire,Their voices hushed in endless sleep;Well might the noblest cause expireBeneath that mangled, smouldering heap;Yet that wan band, unarmed, defiedThe legions of their pagan foes;And in the truths they testified,From out the ashes rose.

They seemed to die by sword and fire,

Their voices hushed in endless sleep;

Well might the noblest cause expire

Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap;

Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied

The legions of their pagan foes;

And in the truths they testified,

From out the ashes rose.

———

I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to meTo say if I will follow truth and Thee,Or choose instead to win, as better worthMy pains, some cloying recompense of earth—Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,Home to obscure endurance to be borneRather than live my own mean gains to scorn.—Edward Sandford Martin.

I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to meTo say if I will follow truth and Thee,Or choose instead to win, as better worthMy pains, some cloying recompense of earth—

I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to me

To say if I will follow truth and Thee,

Or choose instead to win, as better worth

My pains, some cloying recompense of earth—

Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,Home to obscure endurance to be borneRather than live my own mean gains to scorn.

Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,

Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,

Home to obscure endurance to be borne

Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn.

—Edward Sandford Martin.

———

O, well for him whose will is strong!He suffers, but he will not suffer long;He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong.For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,Who seems a promontory of rock,That, compassed round with turbulent sound,In middle ocean meets the surging shock,Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.—Alfred Tennyson.

O, well for him whose will is strong!

He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong.

For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,

Who seems a promontory of rock,

That, compassed round with turbulent sound,

In middle ocean meets the surging shock,

Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.

—Alfred Tennyson.

———

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low!—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,Our hearts in glad surprise,To higher levels rise.

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,

Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

Our hearts in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper soulsInto our inmost being rolls,And lifts us unawaresOut of all meaner cares.

The tidal wave of deeper souls

Into our inmost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deedsThus help us in our daily needs,And by their overflowRaise us from what is low!

Honor to those whose words or deeds

Thus help us in our daily needs,

And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low!

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

Not on the gory field of fameTheir noble deeds were done;Not in the sound of earth's acclaimTheir fadeless crowns were won.Not from the palaces of kings,Nor fortune's sunny clime,Came the great souls, whose life-work flingsLuster o'er earth and time.For truth with tireless zeal they sought;In joyless paths they trod—Heedless of praise or blame they wrought,And left the rest to God.The lowliest sphere was not disdained;Where love could soothe or save,They went, by fearless faith sustained,Nor knew their deeds were brave.The foes with which they waged their strifeWere passion, self, and sin;The victories that laureled lifeWere fought and won within.Not names in gold emblazoned here,And great and good confessed,In Heaven's immortal scroll appearAs noblest and as best.No sculptured stone in stately templeProclaims their rugged lot;Like Him who was their great example,This vain world knew them not.But though their names no poet woveIn deathless song or story,Their record is inscribed above;Their wreaths are crowns of glory.—Edward Hartley Dewart.

Not on the gory field of fame

Their noble deeds were done;

Not in the sound of earth's acclaim

Their fadeless crowns were won.

Not from the palaces of kings,

Nor fortune's sunny clime,

Came the great souls, whose life-work flings

Luster o'er earth and time.

For truth with tireless zeal they sought;In joyless paths they trod—Heedless of praise or blame they wrought,And left the rest to God.The lowliest sphere was not disdained;Where love could soothe or save,They went, by fearless faith sustained,Nor knew their deeds were brave.

For truth with tireless zeal they sought;

In joyless paths they trod—

Heedless of praise or blame they wrought,

And left the rest to God.

The lowliest sphere was not disdained;

Where love could soothe or save,

They went, by fearless faith sustained,

Nor knew their deeds were brave.

The foes with which they waged their strifeWere passion, self, and sin;The victories that laureled lifeWere fought and won within.Not names in gold emblazoned here,And great and good confessed,In Heaven's immortal scroll appearAs noblest and as best.

The foes with which they waged their strife

Were passion, self, and sin;

The victories that laureled life

Were fought and won within.

Not names in gold emblazoned here,

And great and good confessed,

In Heaven's immortal scroll appear

As noblest and as best.

No sculptured stone in stately templeProclaims their rugged lot;Like Him who was their great example,This vain world knew them not.But though their names no poet woveIn deathless song or story,Their record is inscribed above;Their wreaths are crowns of glory.

No sculptured stone in stately temple

Proclaims their rugged lot;

Like Him who was their great example,

This vain world knew them not.

But though their names no poet wove

In deathless song or story,

Their record is inscribed above;

Their wreaths are crowns of glory.

—Edward Hartley Dewart.

———

"Even in a palace, life may be led well!"So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men,Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling denOf common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,Our freedom for a little bread we sell,And drudge under some foolish master's ken,Who rates us if we peer outside our pen—Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?"Even in a palace!" On his truth sincere,Who spoke these words no shadow ever came;And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflameSome nobler, ampler stage of life to win,I'll stop and say: "There were no succor here!The aids to noble life are all within."—Matthew Arnold.

"Even in a palace, life may be led well!"

So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men,

Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den

Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell,

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,

And drudge under some foolish master's ken,

Who rates us if we peer outside our pen—

Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?

"Even in a palace!" On his truth sincere,

Who spoke these words no shadow ever came;

And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,

I'll stop and say: "There were no succor here!

The aids to noble life are all within."

—Matthew Arnold.

———

To do the tasks of life, and be not lost;To mingle, yet dwell apart;To be by roughest seas how rudely tossed,Yet bate no jot of heart;To hold thy course among the heavenly stars,Yet dwell upon the earth;To stand behind Fate's firm-laid prison bars,Yet win all Freedom's worth.—Sydney Henry Morse.

To do the tasks of life, and be not lost;To mingle, yet dwell apart;To be by roughest seas how rudely tossed,Yet bate no jot of heart;

To do the tasks of life, and be not lost;

To mingle, yet dwell apart;

To be by roughest seas how rudely tossed,

Yet bate no jot of heart;

To hold thy course among the heavenly stars,Yet dwell upon the earth;To stand behind Fate's firm-laid prison bars,Yet win all Freedom's worth.

To hold thy course among the heavenly stars,

Yet dwell upon the earth;

To stand behind Fate's firm-laid prison bars,

Yet win all Freedom's worth.

—Sydney Henry Morse.

———

'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyeswith those we cherish near,And wafted upward by their sighs soarto some calmer sphere;But whether on the scaffold high orin the battle's vanThe fittest place where man can dieis where he dies for man.—Michael Joseph Barry.

'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes

with those we cherish near,

And wafted upward by their sighs soar

to some calmer sphere;

But whether on the scaffold high or

in the battle's van

The fittest place where man can die

is where he dies for man.

—Michael Joseph Barry.

———

(James Braidwood of the London FireBrigade; died June, 1861.)

Not at the battle front, writ of in story,Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,Died he—this Hero now; hero forever.No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him;No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.Only an honest man doing his duty;Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;Death found—and touched him with finger in flying—Lo! he rose up complete—hero undying.Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him,Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling,And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.Then the Lord calls his own—like this man, even,Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

Not at the battle front, writ of in story,Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;

Not at the battle front, writ of in story,

Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;

Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,Died he—this Hero now; hero forever.

Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,

Died he—this Hero now; hero forever.

No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him;No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;

No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him;

No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;

Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.Only an honest man doing his duty;

Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.

Only an honest man doing his duty;

Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;

Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,

Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;

Death found—and touched him with finger in flying—Lo! he rose up complete—hero undying.

Death found—and touched him with finger in flying—

Lo! he rose up complete—hero undying.

Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him,Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;

Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him,

Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;

Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling,And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;

Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling,

And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;

Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.

Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;

Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.

So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,

Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

Then the Lord calls his own—like this man, even,Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.

Then the Lord calls his own—like this man, even,

Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

———

Unless above himself he canErect himself, how poor a thing is man.—Samuel Daniel.

Unless above himself he canErect himself, how poor a thing is man.

Unless above himself he can

Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.

—Samuel Daniel.

———

Nay, not for place, but for the right,To make this fair world fairer still—Or lowly lily of the night,Or sun topped tower of a hill,Or high or low, or near or far,Or dull or keen, or bright or dim,Or blade of grass, or brightest star—All, all are but the same to him.O pity of the strife for place!O pity of the strife for power!How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!How fair the face of a flower!The blade of grass beneath your feetThe bravest sword—aye, braver farTo do and die in mute defeatThan bravest conqueror of war!When I am dead, say this, but this:"He grasped at no man's blade or shield.Or banner bore, but helmetless,Alone, unknown, he held the field;He held the field, with sabre drawn,Where God had set him in the fight;He held the field, fought on and on,And so fell, fighting for the right!"—Joaquin Miller.

Nay, not for place, but for the right,

To make this fair world fairer still—

Or lowly lily of the night,

Or sun topped tower of a hill,

Or high or low, or near or far,

Or dull or keen, or bright or dim,

Or blade of grass, or brightest star—

All, all are but the same to him.

O pity of the strife for place!O pity of the strife for power!How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!How fair the face of a flower!The blade of grass beneath your feetThe bravest sword—aye, braver farTo do and die in mute defeatThan bravest conqueror of war!

O pity of the strife for place!

O pity of the strife for power!

How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!

How fair the face of a flower!

The blade of grass beneath your feet

The bravest sword—aye, braver far

To do and die in mute defeat

Than bravest conqueror of war!

When I am dead, say this, but this:"He grasped at no man's blade or shield.Or banner bore, but helmetless,Alone, unknown, he held the field;He held the field, with sabre drawn,Where God had set him in the fight;He held the field, fought on and on,And so fell, fighting for the right!"

When I am dead, say this, but this:

"He grasped at no man's blade or shield.

Or banner bore, but helmetless,

Alone, unknown, he held the field;

He held the field, with sabre drawn,

Where God had set him in the fight;

He held the field, fought on and on,

And so fell, fighting for the right!"

—Joaquin Miller.

———

While thus to love he gave his daysIn loyal worship, scorning praise,How spread their lures for him in vain,Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!He thought it happier to be dead,To die for Beauty than live for bread.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

While thus to love he gave his days

In loyal worship, scorning praise,

How spread their lures for him in vain,

Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!

He thought it happier to be dead,

To die for Beauty than live for bread.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

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