Chapter 5

He makes no friend who never made a foe.—Alfred Tennyson.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

—Alfred Tennyson.

———

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,Nor the purple coloring;Nor the brow that's bound with gold,Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.The king is he who, void of fear,Looks abroad with bosom clear;Who can tread ambition down,Nor be swayed by smile or frown,Nor for all the treasure cares,That mine conceals or harvest wears,Or that golden sands deliverBosomed in the glassy river.What shall move his placid might?Not the headlong thunder's light,Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,With onward lance or fiery blade.Safe, with wisdom for his crown,He looks on all things calmly down,He welcomes Fate when Fate is near,Nor taints his dying breath with fear.No; to fear not earthly thing,That it is that makes the king;And all of us, whoe'er we be,May carve us out that royalty.—Seneca, tr. by Leigh Hunt.

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,Nor the purple coloring;Nor the brow that's bound with gold,Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,

Nor the purple coloring;

Nor the brow that's bound with gold,

Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.

The king is he who, void of fear,Looks abroad with bosom clear;Who can tread ambition down,Nor be swayed by smile or frown,Nor for all the treasure cares,That mine conceals or harvest wears,Or that golden sands deliverBosomed in the glassy river.

The king is he who, void of fear,

Looks abroad with bosom clear;

Who can tread ambition down,

Nor be swayed by smile or frown,

Nor for all the treasure cares,

That mine conceals or harvest wears,

Or that golden sands deliver

Bosomed in the glassy river.

What shall move his placid might?Not the headlong thunder's light,Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,With onward lance or fiery blade.Safe, with wisdom for his crown,He looks on all things calmly down,He welcomes Fate when Fate is near,Nor taints his dying breath with fear.

What shall move his placid might?

Not the headlong thunder's light,

Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,

With onward lance or fiery blade.

Safe, with wisdom for his crown,

He looks on all things calmly down,

He welcomes Fate when Fate is near,

Nor taints his dying breath with fear.

No; to fear not earthly thing,That it is that makes the king;And all of us, whoe'er we be,May carve us out that royalty.

No; to fear not earthly thing,

That it is that makes the king;

And all of us, whoe'er we be,

May carve us out that royalty.

—Seneca, tr. by Leigh Hunt.

———

With comrade Duty, in the dark or day,To follow Truth—wherever it may lead;To hate all meanness, cowardice or greed;To look for Beauty under common clay;Our brothers' burden sharing, when they weep,But, if we fall, to bear defeat alone;To live in hearts that loved us, when we're goneBeyond the twilight (till the morning break!)—to sleep—That is Success!—Ernest Neal Lyon.

With comrade Duty, in the dark or day,

To follow Truth—wherever it may lead;

To hate all meanness, cowardice or greed;

To look for Beauty under common clay;

Our brothers' burden sharing, when they weep,

But, if we fall, to bear defeat alone;

To live in hearts that loved us, when we're gone

Beyond the twilight (till the morning break!)—to sleep—

That is Success!

—Ernest Neal Lyon.

———

The common problem, yours, mine, every one's,Is, not to fancy what were fair in lifeProvided it could be, but, finding firstWhat may be, then find out how to make it fairUp to our means; a very different thing.—Robert Browning.

The common problem, yours, mine, every one's,

Is, not to fancy what were fair in life

Provided it could be, but, finding first

What may be, then find out how to make it fair

Up to our means; a very different thing.

—Robert Browning.

———

Better than grandeur, better than gold,Than rank and titles a thousandfold,Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,And simple pleasures that always please;A heart that can feel for another's woe,That has learned with love's deep fires to glow,With sympathy large enough to enfoldAll men as brothers, is better than gold.Better than gold is a conscience clear,Though toiling for bread in a humble sphere;Doubly blest is content and healthUntried by the lusts and the cares of wealth.Lowly living and lofty thoughtAdorn and ennoble the poor man's cot;For mind and morals in nature's planAre the genuine tests of the gentleman.Better than gold is the sweet reposeOf the sons of toil when labors close;Better than gold is the poor man's sleepAnd the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed,Where luxury pillows its aching head;The toiler a simple opiate deemsA shorter route to the land of dreams.Better than gold is a thinking mindThat in the realm of books can findA treasure surpassing Australian ore,And live with the great and good of yore;The sage's lore and the poet's lay;The glories of empires passed away;The world's great dream will thus unfoldAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.Better than gold is a peaceful home,Where all the fireside characters come,The shrine of love, the heaven of life,Hallowed by mother or by wife.However humble the home may be,Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,The blessings that never were bought or soldAnd center there, are better than gold.—Abram J. Ryan.

Better than grandeur, better than gold,

Than rank and titles a thousandfold,

Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,

And simple pleasures that always please;

A heart that can feel for another's woe,

That has learned with love's deep fires to glow,

With sympathy large enough to enfold

All men as brothers, is better than gold.

Better than gold is a conscience clear,Though toiling for bread in a humble sphere;Doubly blest is content and healthUntried by the lusts and the cares of wealth.Lowly living and lofty thoughtAdorn and ennoble the poor man's cot;For mind and morals in nature's planAre the genuine tests of the gentleman.

Better than gold is a conscience clear,

Though toiling for bread in a humble sphere;

Doubly blest is content and health

Untried by the lusts and the cares of wealth.

Lowly living and lofty thought

Adorn and ennoble the poor man's cot;

For mind and morals in nature's plan

Are the genuine tests of the gentleman.

Better than gold is the sweet reposeOf the sons of toil when labors close;Better than gold is the poor man's sleepAnd the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed,Where luxury pillows its aching head;The toiler a simple opiate deemsA shorter route to the land of dreams.

Better than gold is the sweet repose

Of the sons of toil when labors close;

Better than gold is the poor man's sleep

And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.

Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed,

Where luxury pillows its aching head;

The toiler a simple opiate deems

A shorter route to the land of dreams.

Better than gold is a thinking mindThat in the realm of books can findA treasure surpassing Australian ore,And live with the great and good of yore;The sage's lore and the poet's lay;The glories of empires passed away;The world's great dream will thus unfoldAnd yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a thinking mind

That in the realm of books can find

A treasure surpassing Australian ore,

And live with the great and good of yore;

The sage's lore and the poet's lay;

The glories of empires passed away;

The world's great dream will thus unfold

And yield a pleasure better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home,Where all the fireside characters come,The shrine of love, the heaven of life,Hallowed by mother or by wife.However humble the home may be,Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,The blessings that never were bought or soldAnd center there, are better than gold.

Better than gold is a peaceful home,

Where all the fireside characters come,

The shrine of love, the heaven of life,

Hallowed by mother or by wife.

However humble the home may be,

Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,

The blessings that never were bought or sold

And center there, are better than gold.

—Abram J. Ryan.

———

When success exalts thy lotGod for thy virtue lays a plot.—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

When success exalts thy lotGod for thy virtue lays a plot.

When success exalts thy lot

God for thy virtue lays a plot.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

I hold him great who, for Love's sake,Can give with generous, earnest will;Yet he who takes for Love's sweet sakeI think I hold more generous still.I bow before the noble mindThat freely some great wrong forgives;Yet nobler is the one forgiven,Who bears that burden well and lives.It may be hard to gain, and stillTo keep a lowly, steadfast heart;Yet he who loses has to fillA harder and a truer part.Glorious it is to wear the crownOf a deserved and pure success;He who knows how to fail has wonA crown whose luster is not less.Great may he be who can commandAnd rule with just and tender sway;Yet is Diviner wisdom taughtBetter by him who can obey.Blessed are those 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.—Adelaide Anne Procter.

I hold him great who, for Love's sake,Can give with generous, earnest will;Yet he who takes for Love's sweet sakeI think I hold more generous still.

I hold him great who, for Love's sake,

Can give with generous, earnest will;

Yet he who takes for Love's sweet sake

I think I hold more generous still.

I bow before the noble mindThat freely some great wrong forgives;Yet nobler is the one forgiven,Who bears that burden well and lives.

I bow before the noble mind

That freely some great wrong forgives;

Yet nobler is the one forgiven,

Who bears that burden well and lives.

It may be hard to gain, and stillTo keep a lowly, steadfast heart;Yet he who loses has to fillA harder and a truer part.

It may be hard to gain, and still

To keep a lowly, steadfast heart;

Yet he who loses has to fill

A harder and a truer part.

Glorious it is to wear the crownOf a deserved and pure success;He who knows how to fail has wonA crown whose luster is not less.

Glorious it is to wear the crown

Of a deserved and pure success;

He who knows how to fail has won

A crown whose luster is not less.

Great may he be who can commandAnd rule with just and tender sway;Yet is Diviner wisdom taughtBetter by him who can obey.

Great may he be who can command

And rule with just and tender sway;

Yet is Diviner wisdom taught

Better by him who can obey.

Blessed are those 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 those 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.

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

———

'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great:Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.Who noble ends by noble means obtains,Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains;Like good Aurelius, let him reign, or bleedLike Socrates—that man is great indeed.One self-approving hour whole years outweighsOf stupid starers and of loud huzzas;And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels,Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.—Alexander Pope.

'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great:

Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,

Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.

Who noble ends by noble means obtains,

Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains;

Like good Aurelius, let him reign, or bleed

Like Socrates—that man is great indeed.

One self-approving hour whole years outweighs

Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas;

And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels,

Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.

—Alexander Pope.

———

Though world on world in myriad myriads rollRound us, each with different powers,And other forms of life than ours,What know we greater than the soul?On God and Godlike men we build our trust.—Alfred Tennyson.

Though world on world in myriad myriads rollRound us, each with different powers,And other forms of life than ours,What know we greater than the soul?On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

Though world on world in myriad myriads roll

Round us, each with different powers,

And other forms of life than ours,

What know we greater than the soul?

On God and Godlike men we build our trust.

—Alfred Tennyson.

———

How seldom, friend, a good, great man inheritsHonor and wealth, with all his worth and pains!It seems a story from the world of spiritsWhen any man obtains that which he merits,Or any merits that which he obtains.For shame, my friend; renounce this idle strain!What would'st thou have a good, great man obtain?Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain?Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.Hath he not always treasurer, always friends,The great, good man? Three treasures—love, and light,And calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath;And three fast friends, more sure than day or night—Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

How seldom, friend, a good, great man inherits

Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains!

It seems a story from the world of spirits

When any man obtains that which he merits,

Or any merits that which he obtains.

For shame, my friend; renounce this idle strain!What would'st thou have a good, great man obtain?Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain?Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.Hath he not always treasurer, always friends,The great, good man? Three treasures—love, and light,And calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath;And three fast friends, more sure than day or night—Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

For shame, my friend; renounce this idle strain!

What would'st thou have a good, great man obtain?

Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,

Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain?

Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.

Hath he not always treasurer, always friends,

The great, good man? Three treasures—love, and light,

And calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath;

And three fast friends, more sure than day or night—

Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

———

The poem of the universeNor rhythm has nor rhyme;For God recites the wondrous songA stanza at a time.Great deeds is he foredoomed to do—With Freedom's flag unfurled—Who hears the echo of that songAs it goes down the world.Great words he is compelled to speakWho understands the song;He rises up like fifty men,Fifty good men and strong.A stanza for each century:Now heed it all who can!Who hears it, he, and only he,Is the elected man.—Charles Weldon.

The poem of the universeNor rhythm has nor rhyme;For God recites the wondrous songA stanza at a time.

The poem of the universe

Nor rhythm has nor rhyme;

For God recites the wondrous song

A stanza at a time.

Great deeds is he foredoomed to do—With Freedom's flag unfurled—Who hears the echo of that songAs it goes down the world.

Great deeds is he foredoomed to do—

With Freedom's flag unfurled—

Who hears the echo of that song

As it goes down the world.

Great words he is compelled to speakWho understands the song;He rises up like fifty men,Fifty good men and strong.

Great words he is compelled to speak

Who understands the song;

He rises up like fifty men,

Fifty good men and strong.

A stanza for each century:Now heed it all who can!Who hears it, he, and only he,Is the elected man.

A stanza for each century:

Now heed it all who can!

Who hears it, he, and only he,

Is the elected man.

—Charles Weldon.

———

When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!—John Greenleaf Whittier.

When faith is lost, when honor dies,The man is dead!

When faith is lost, when honor dies,

The man is dead!

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

He fails who climbs to power and placeUp the pathway of disgrace.He fails not who makes truth his cause,Nor bends to win the crowd's applause.He fails not, he who stakes his allUpon the right, and dares to fall;What though the living bless or blame,For him the long success of fame.—Richard Watson Gilder.

He fails who climbs to power and place

Up the pathway of disgrace.

He fails not who makes truth his cause,

Nor bends to win the crowd's applause.

He fails not, he who stakes his all

Upon the right, and dares to fall;

What though the living bless or blame,

For him the long success of fame.

—Richard Watson Gilder.

———

It matters little where I was born,Or if my parents were rich or poor;Whether they shrunk at the cold world's scorn,Or walked in the pride of wealth secure.But whether I live an honest manAnd hold my integrity firm in my clutchI tell you, brother, as plain as I can,It matters much.It matters little how long I stayIn a world of sorrow, sin, and care;Whether in youth I am called awayOr live till my bones and pate are bare.But whether I do the best I canTo soften the weight of Adversity's touchOn the faded cheek of my fellow man,It matters much.It matters little where be my grave—Or on the land or in the sea,By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave,It matters little or naught to me;But whether the Angel Death comes down,And marks my brow with his loving touch,As one that shall wear the victor's crown,It matters much.—Noah Barker.

It matters little where I was born,

Or if my parents were rich or poor;

Whether they shrunk at the cold world's scorn,

Or walked in the pride of wealth secure.

But whether I live an honest man

And hold my integrity firm in my clutch

I tell you, brother, as plain as I can,

It matters much.

It matters little how long I stayIn a world of sorrow, sin, and care;Whether in youth I am called awayOr live till my bones and pate are bare.But whether I do the best I canTo soften the weight of Adversity's touchOn the faded cheek of my fellow man,It matters much.

It matters little how long I stay

In a world of sorrow, sin, and care;

Whether in youth I am called away

Or live till my bones and pate are bare.

But whether I do the best I can

To soften the weight of Adversity's touch

On the faded cheek of my fellow man,

It matters much.

It matters little where be my grave—Or on the land or in the sea,By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave,It matters little or naught to me;But whether the Angel Death comes down,And marks my brow with his loving touch,As one that shall wear the victor's crown,It matters much.

It matters little where be my grave—

Or on the land or in the sea,

By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave,

It matters little or naught to me;

But whether the Angel Death comes down,

And marks my brow with his loving touch,

As one that shall wear the victor's crown,

It matters much.

—Noah Barker.

———

For I am 'ware it is the seed of actGod holds appraising in his hollow palm,Not act grown great thence in the world below;Leafage and branchage vulgar eyes admire.—Robert Browning.

For I am 'ware it is the seed of actGod holds appraising in his hollow palm,Not act grown great thence in the world below;Leafage and branchage vulgar eyes admire.

For I am 'ware it is the seed of act

God holds appraising in his hollow palm,

Not act grown great thence in the world below;

Leafage and branchage vulgar eyes admire.

—Robert Browning.

———

"The world knows nothing of its greatest men."

They have no place in storied page;No rest in marble shrine;They are past and gone with a perished age,They died and "made no sign."But work that shall find its wages yet,And deeds that their God did not forget,Done for their love divine—These were their mourners, and these shall beThe crowns of their immortality.O, seek them not where sleep the dead,Ye shall not find their trace;No graven stone is at their head,No green grass hides their face;But sad and unseen is their silent grave;It may be the sand or the deep sea wave,Or a lonely desert place;For they needed no prayers and no mourning-bell—They were tombed in true hearts that knew them well.They healed sick hearts till theirs were broken,And dried sad eyes till theirs lost light;We shall know at last by a certain tokenHow they fought and fell in the fight.Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld,Passionate cries unchronicled,And silent strifes for the right—Angels shall count them, and earth shall sighThat she left her best children to battle and die.—Edwin Arnold.

They have no place in storied page;

No rest in marble shrine;

They are past and gone with a perished age,

They died and "made no sign."

But work that shall find its wages yet,

And deeds that their God did not forget,

Done for their love divine—

These were their mourners, and these shall be

The crowns of their immortality.

O, seek them not where sleep the dead,Ye shall not find their trace;No graven stone is at their head,No green grass hides their face;But sad and unseen is their silent grave;It may be the sand or the deep sea wave,Or a lonely desert place;For they needed no prayers and no mourning-bell—They were tombed in true hearts that knew them well.

O, seek them not where sleep the dead,

Ye shall not find their trace;

No graven stone is at their head,

No green grass hides their face;

But sad and unseen is their silent grave;

It may be the sand or the deep sea wave,

Or a lonely desert place;

For they needed no prayers and no mourning-bell—

They were tombed in true hearts that knew them well.

They healed sick hearts till theirs were broken,And dried sad eyes till theirs lost light;We shall know at last by a certain tokenHow they fought and fell in the fight.Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld,Passionate cries unchronicled,And silent strifes for the right—Angels shall count them, and earth shall sighThat she left her best children to battle and die.

They healed sick hearts till theirs were broken,

And dried sad eyes till theirs lost light;

We shall know at last by a certain token

How they fought and fell in the fight.

Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld,

Passionate cries unchronicled,

And silent strifes for the right—

Angels shall count them, and earth shall sigh

That she left her best children to battle and die.

—Edwin Arnold.

———

Before God's footstool to confessA poor soul knelt and bowed his head."I failed," he wailed. The Master said,"Thou did'st thy best—that is success."—Henry Coyle.

Before God's footstool to confessA poor soul knelt and bowed his head."I failed," he wailed. The Master said,"Thou did'st thy best—that is success."

Before God's footstool to confess

A poor soul knelt and bowed his head.

"I failed," he wailed. The Master said,

"Thou did'st thy best—that is success."

—Henry Coyle.

———

Aspire, break bounds, I say;Endeavor to be good and better still,And best! Success is naught, endeavor's all.—Robert Browning.

Aspire, break bounds, I say;Endeavor to be good and better still,And best! Success is naught, endeavor's all.

Aspire, break bounds, I say;

Endeavor to be good and better still,

And best! Success is naught, endeavor's all.

—Robert Browning.

———

He cast his net at morn where fishers toiled,At eve he drew it empty to the shore;He took the diver's plunge into the sea,But thence within his hand no pearl he bore.He ran a race, but never reached his goal;He sped an arrow, but he missed his aim;And slept at last beneath a simple stone,With no achievements carved about his name.Men called it failure; but for my own partI dare not use that word, for what if HeavenShall question, ere its judgment shall be read,Not, "Hast thou won?" but only, "Hast thou striven?"—Kate Tucker Goode.

He cast his net at morn where fishers toiled,At eve he drew it empty to the shore;He took the diver's plunge into the sea,But thence within his hand no pearl he bore.

He cast his net at morn where fishers toiled,

At eve he drew it empty to the shore;

He took the diver's plunge into the sea,

But thence within his hand no pearl he bore.

He ran a race, but never reached his goal;He sped an arrow, but he missed his aim;And slept at last beneath a simple stone,With no achievements carved about his name.

He ran a race, but never reached his goal;

He sped an arrow, but he missed his aim;

And slept at last beneath a simple stone,

With no achievements carved about his name.

Men called it failure; but for my own partI dare not use that word, for what if HeavenShall question, ere its judgment shall be read,Not, "Hast thou won?" but only, "Hast thou striven?"

Men called it failure; but for my own part

I dare not use that word, for what if Heaven

Shall question, ere its judgment shall be read,

Not, "Hast thou won?" but only, "Hast thou striven?"

—Kate Tucker Goode.

———

The king's proud favorite at a beggar threw a stone.He picked it up as if it had for alms been thrown.He bore it in his bosom long with bitter ache,And sought his time revenge with that same stone to take.One day he heard a street mob's hoarse, commingled cry:The favorite comes!—but draws no more the admiring eye.He rides an ass, from all his haughty state disgraced;And by the rabble's mocking gibes his way is traced.The stone from out his bosom swift the beggar draws,And flinging it away, exclaims: "A fool I was!'Tis madness to attack, when in his power, your foe,And meanness then to strike when he has fallen low."—From the Persian.

The king's proud favorite at a beggar threw a stone.He picked it up as if it had for alms been thrown.

The king's proud favorite at a beggar threw a stone.

He picked it up as if it had for alms been thrown.

He bore it in his bosom long with bitter ache,And sought his time revenge with that same stone to take.

He bore it in his bosom long with bitter ache,

And sought his time revenge with that same stone to take.

One day he heard a street mob's hoarse, commingled cry:The favorite comes!—but draws no more the admiring eye.

One day he heard a street mob's hoarse, commingled cry:

The favorite comes!—but draws no more the admiring eye.

He rides an ass, from all his haughty state disgraced;And by the rabble's mocking gibes his way is traced.

He rides an ass, from all his haughty state disgraced;

And by the rabble's mocking gibes his way is traced.

The stone from out his bosom swift the beggar draws,And flinging it away, exclaims: "A fool I was!

The stone from out his bosom swift the beggar draws,

And flinging it away, exclaims: "A fool I was!

'Tis madness to attack, when in his power, your foe,And meanness then to strike when he has fallen low."

'Tis madness to attack, when in his power, your foe,

And meanness then to strike when he has fallen low."

—From the Persian.

———

Hearts that are great beat never loud;They muffle their music, when they come;They hurry away from the thronging crowdWith bended brows and lips half dumb.And the world looks on and mutters—"Proud."But when great hearts have passed away,Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud,And in love they kneel around their clay.Hearts that are great are always lone;They never will manifest their best;Their greatest greatness is unknown,Earth knows a little—God the rest.—Abram J. Ryan.

Hearts that are great beat never loud;They muffle their music, when they come;They hurry away from the thronging crowdWith bended brows and lips half dumb.

Hearts that are great beat never loud;

They muffle their music, when they come;

They hurry away from the thronging crowd

With bended brows and lips half dumb.

And the world looks on and mutters—"Proud."But when great hearts have passed away,Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud,And in love they kneel around their clay.

And the world looks on and mutters—"Proud."

But when great hearts have passed away,

Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud,

And in love they kneel around their clay.

Hearts that are great are always lone;They never will manifest their best;Their greatest greatness is unknown,Earth knows a little—God the rest.

Hearts that are great are always lone;

They never will manifest their best;

Their greatest greatness is unknown,

Earth knows a little—God the rest.

—Abram J. Ryan.

———

He built a house, time laid it in the dust;He wrote a book, its title now forgot;He ruled a city, but his name is notOn any tablet graven, or where rustCan gather from disuse, or marble bust.He took a child from out a wretched cot;Who on the State dishonor might have brought;And reared him in the Christian's hope and trust.The boy, to manhood grown, became a lightTo many souls and preached to human needThe wondrous love of the Omnipotent.The work has multiplied like stars at nightWhen darkness deepens; every noble deedLasts longer than a granite monument.—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

He built a house, time laid it in the dust;He wrote a book, its title now forgot;He ruled a city, but his name is notOn any tablet graven, or where rustCan gather from disuse, or marble bust.

He built a house, time laid it in the dust;

He wrote a book, its title now forgot;

He ruled a city, but his name is not

On any tablet graven, or where rust

Can gather from disuse, or marble bust.

He took a child from out a wretched cot;Who on the State dishonor might have brought;And reared him in the Christian's hope and trust.The boy, to manhood grown, became a lightTo many souls and preached to human needThe wondrous love of the Omnipotent.The work has multiplied like stars at nightWhen darkness deepens; every noble deedLasts longer than a granite monument.

He took a child from out a wretched cot;

Who on the State dishonor might have brought;

And reared him in the Christian's hope and trust.

The boy, to manhood grown, became a light

To many souls and preached to human need

The wondrous love of the Omnipotent.

The work has multiplied like stars at night

When darkness deepens; every noble deed

Lasts longer than a granite monument.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

It is not the wall of stone withoutThat makes a building small or great,But the soul's light shining round about,And the faith that overcometh doubt,And the love that stronger is than hate.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

It is not the wall of stone withoutThat makes a building small or great,But the soul's light shining round about,And the faith that overcometh doubt,And the love that stronger is than hate.

It is not the wall of stone without

That makes a building small or great,

But the soul's light shining round about,

And the faith that overcometh doubt,

And the love that stronger is than hate.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

Who counts himself as nobly bornIs noble in despite of place;And honors are but brands to oneWho wears them not with nature's grace.The prince may sit with clown or churlNor feel himself disgraced thereby;But he who has but small esteemHusbands that little carefully.Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer,Count it still more thou art thine own.Stand on a larger heraldryThan that of nation or of zone.Art thou not bid to knightly halls?Those halls have missed a courtly guest:That mansion is not privilegedWhich is not open to the best.Give honor due when custom asks,Nor wrangle for this lesser claim;It is not to be destituteTo have the thing without the name.Then, dost thou come of gentle blood,Disgrace not thy good company;If lowly born, so bear thyselfThat gentle blood may come of thee.Strive not with pain to scale the heightOf some fair garden's petty wall;But climb the open mountain sideWhose summit rises over all.

Who counts himself as nobly bornIs noble in despite of place;And honors are but brands to oneWho wears them not with nature's grace.

Who counts himself as nobly born

Is noble in despite of place;

And honors are but brands to one

Who wears them not with nature's grace.

The prince may sit with clown or churlNor feel himself disgraced thereby;But he who has but small esteemHusbands that little carefully.

The prince may sit with clown or churl

Nor feel himself disgraced thereby;

But he who has but small esteem

Husbands that little carefully.

Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer,Count it still more thou art thine own.Stand on a larger heraldryThan that of nation or of zone.

Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer,

Count it still more thou art thine own.

Stand on a larger heraldry

Than that of nation or of zone.

Art thou not bid to knightly halls?Those halls have missed a courtly guest:That mansion is not privilegedWhich is not open to the best.

Art thou not bid to knightly halls?

Those halls have missed a courtly guest:

That mansion is not privileged

Which is not open to the best.

Give honor due when custom asks,Nor wrangle for this lesser claim;It is not to be destituteTo have the thing without the name.

Give honor due when custom asks,

Nor wrangle for this lesser claim;

It is not to be destitute

To have the thing without the name.

Then, dost thou come of gentle blood,Disgrace not thy good company;If lowly born, so bear thyselfThat gentle blood may come of thee.

Then, dost thou come of gentle blood,

Disgrace not thy good company;

If lowly born, so bear thyself

That gentle blood may come of thee.

Strive not with pain to scale the heightOf some fair garden's petty wall;But climb the open mountain sideWhose summit rises over all.

Strive not with pain to scale the height

Of some fair garden's petty wall;

But climb the open mountain side

Whose summit rises over all.

———

And, for success, I ask no more than this:To bear unflinching witness to the truth.All true whole men succeed; for what is worthSuccess's name unless it be the thought,The inward surety, to have carried outA noble purpose to a noble end,Although it be the gallows or the block?'Tis only Falsehood that doth ever needThese outward shows of gain to bolster her.—James Russell Lowell.

And, for success, I ask no more than this:

To bear unflinching witness to the truth.

All true whole men succeed; for what is worth

Success's name unless it be the thought,

The inward surety, to have carried out

A noble purpose to a noble end,

Although it be the gallows or the block?

'Tis only Falsehood that doth ever need

These outward shows of gain to bolster her.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

Greatly begin! though thou have timeBut for a line, be that sublime—Not failure, but low aim is crime.—James Russell Lowell.

Greatly begin! though thou have timeBut for a line, be that sublime—Not failure, but low aim is crime.

Greatly begin! though thou have time

But for a line, be that sublime—

Not failure, but low aim is crime.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

By Nebo's lonely mountain,On this side Jordan's wave,In a vale in the land of Moab,There lies a lonely grave.But no man dug that sepulchre,And no man saw it e'er;For the angels of God upturned the sod,And laid the dead man there.That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth.Noiselessly as the daylightComes when the night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean's cheekGrows into the great sun—Noiselessly as the springtimeHer crest of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves—So, without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain crownThe great procession swept.Perchance some bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor's height,Out of his rocky eyrieLooked on the wondrous sight.Perchance some lion, stalking,Still shuns the hallowed spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.But when the warrior diethHis comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drumsFollow the funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his matchless steedWhile peals the minute gun.Amid the noblest of the landThey lay the sage to rest;And give the bard an honored place,With costly marble drest,In the great minster's transept height,Where lights like glory fall,While the sweet choir sings and the organ ringsAlong the emblazoned wall.This was the bravest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth's philosopherTraced, with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.And had he not high honor?The hillside for his pall;To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall;And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave;And God's own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in his grave;In that deep grave without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—most wondrous thought!—Before the judgment day,And stand, with glory wrapt around,On the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeThrough Christ, the incarnate God.O lonely tomb in Moab's land,O dark Beth-peor's hill,Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath his mysteries of grace—Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep, like the secret sleepOf him he loved so well.—Cecil Frances Alexander.

By Nebo's lonely mountain,

On this side Jordan's wave,

In a vale in the land of Moab,

There lies a lonely grave.

But no man dug that sepulchre,

And no man saw it e'er;

For the angels of God upturned the sod,

And laid the dead man there.

That was the grandest funeralThat ever passed on earth;But no man heard the trampling,Or saw the train go forth.Noiselessly as the daylightComes when the night is done,And the crimson streak on ocean's cheekGrows into the great sun—

That was the grandest funeral

That ever passed on earth;

But no man heard the trampling,

Or saw the train go forth.

Noiselessly as the daylight

Comes when the night is done,

And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

Grows into the great sun—

Noiselessly as the springtimeHer crest of verdure weaves,And all the trees on all the hillsOpen their thousand leaves—So, without sound of music,Or voice of them that wept,Silently down from the mountain crownThe great procession swept.

Noiselessly as the springtime

Her crest of verdure weaves,

And all the trees on all the hills

Open their thousand leaves—

So, without sound of music,

Or voice of them that wept,

Silently down from the mountain crown

The great procession swept.

Perchance some bald old eagleOn gray Beth-peor's height,Out of his rocky eyrieLooked on the wondrous sight.Perchance some lion, stalking,Still shuns the hallowed spot,For beast and bird have seen and heardThat which man knoweth not.

Perchance some bald old eagle

On gray Beth-peor's height,

Out of his rocky eyrie

Looked on the wondrous sight.

Perchance some lion, stalking,

Still shuns the hallowed spot,

For beast and bird have seen and heard

That which man knoweth not.

But when the warrior diethHis comrades in the war,With arms reversed and muffled drumsFollow the funeral car;They show the banners taken,They tell his battles won,And after him lead his matchless steedWhile peals the minute gun.

But when the warrior dieth

His comrades in the war,

With arms reversed and muffled drums

Follow the funeral car;

They show the banners taken,

They tell his battles won,

And after him lead his matchless steed

While peals the minute gun.

Amid the noblest of the landThey lay the sage to rest;And give the bard an honored place,With costly marble drest,In the great minster's transept height,Where lights like glory fall,While the sweet choir sings and the organ ringsAlong the emblazoned wall.

Amid the noblest of the land

They lay the sage to rest;

And give the bard an honored place,

With costly marble drest,

In the great minster's transept height,

Where lights like glory fall,

While the sweet choir sings and the organ rings

Along the emblazoned wall.

This was the bravest warriorThat ever buckled sword;This the most gifted poetThat ever breathed a word;And never earth's philosopherTraced, with his golden pen,On the deathless page, truths half so sageAs he wrote down for men.

This was the bravest warrior

That ever buckled sword;

This the most gifted poet

That ever breathed a word;

And never earth's philosopher

Traced, with his golden pen,

On the deathless page, truths half so sage

As he wrote down for men.

And had he not high honor?The hillside for his pall;To lie in state while angels waitWith stars for tapers tall;And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,Over his bier to wave;And God's own hand, in that lonely land,To lay him in his grave;

And had he not high honor?

The hillside for his pall;

To lie in state while angels wait

With stars for tapers tall;

And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,

Over his bier to wave;

And God's own hand, in that lonely land,

To lay him in his grave;

In that deep grave without a name,Whence his uncoffined clayShall break again—most wondrous thought!—Before the judgment day,And stand, with glory wrapt around,On the hills he never trod,And speak of the strife that won our lifeThrough Christ, the incarnate God.

In that deep grave without a name,

Whence his uncoffined clay

Shall break again—most wondrous thought!—

Before the judgment day,

And stand, with glory wrapt around,

On the hills he never trod,

And speak of the strife that won our life

Through Christ, the incarnate God.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land,O dark Beth-peor's hill,Speak to these curious hearts of ours,And teach them to be still.God hath his mysteries of grace—Ways that we cannot tell;He hides them deep, like the secret sleepOf him he loved so well.

O lonely tomb in Moab's land,

O dark Beth-peor's hill,

Speak to these curious hearts of ours,

And teach them to be still.

God hath his mysteries of grace—

Ways that we cannot tell;

He hides them deep, like the secret sleep

Of him he loved so well.

—Cecil Frances Alexander.

———

O, blessed is that man of whom some soul can say,"He was an inspiration along life's toilsome way,A well of sparkling water, a fountain flowing free,Forever like his Master, in tenderest sympathy."

O, blessed is that man of whom some soul can say,

"He was an inspiration along life's toilsome way,

A well of sparkling water, a fountain flowing free,

Forever like his Master, in tenderest sympathy."

———

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?All fear, none aid you, and few understand.Painful pre-eminence!—yourself to viewAbove life's weakness, and its comforts too.—Alexander Pope.

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?All fear, none aid you, and few understand.Painful pre-eminence!—yourself to viewAbove life's weakness, and its comforts too.

Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?

All fear, none aid you, and few understand.

Painful pre-eminence!—yourself to view

Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.

—Alexander Pope.

———

Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race,Asked with folded hands the Almighty's grace,Then within the banquet-hall he sat,At his meal, upon the embroidered mat.There a slave before him placed the food,Spilling from the charger, as he stood,Awkwardly upon the Emir's breastDrops that foully stained the silken vest.To the floor, in great remorse and dread,Fell the slave, and thus, beseeching, said:"Master, they who hasten to restrainRising wrath, in paradise shall reign."Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:"I am not angry." "Yet," pursued the slave,"Yet doth higher recompense belongTo the injured who forgives a wrong.""I forgive," said Hassan. "Yet we read,"So the prostrate slave went on to plead,"That a higher seat in glory stillWaits the man who renders good for ill.""Slave, receive thy freedom; and, behold,In thy hand I lay a purse of gold.Let me never fail to heed, in aught,What the prophet of our God hath taught."

Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race,Asked with folded hands the Almighty's grace,Then within the banquet-hall he sat,At his meal, upon the embroidered mat.

Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race,

Asked with folded hands the Almighty's grace,

Then within the banquet-hall he sat,

At his meal, upon the embroidered mat.

There a slave before him placed the food,Spilling from the charger, as he stood,Awkwardly upon the Emir's breastDrops that foully stained the silken vest.

There a slave before him placed the food,

Spilling from the charger, as he stood,

Awkwardly upon the Emir's breast

Drops that foully stained the silken vest.

To the floor, in great remorse and dread,Fell the slave, and thus, beseeching, said:"Master, they who hasten to restrainRising wrath, in paradise shall reign."

To the floor, in great remorse and dread,

Fell the slave, and thus, beseeching, said:

"Master, they who hasten to restrain

Rising wrath, in paradise shall reign."

Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:"I am not angry." "Yet," pursued the slave,"Yet doth higher recompense belongTo the injured who forgives a wrong."

Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:

"I am not angry." "Yet," pursued the slave,

"Yet doth higher recompense belong

To the injured who forgives a wrong."

"I forgive," said Hassan. "Yet we read,"So the prostrate slave went on to plead,"That a higher seat in glory stillWaits the man who renders good for ill."

"I forgive," said Hassan. "Yet we read,"

So the prostrate slave went on to plead,

"That a higher seat in glory still

Waits the man who renders good for ill."

"Slave, receive thy freedom; and, behold,In thy hand I lay a purse of gold.Let me never fail to heed, in aught,What the prophet of our God hath taught."

"Slave, receive thy freedom; and, behold,

In thy hand I lay a purse of gold.

Let me never fail to heed, in aught,

What the prophet of our God hath taught."

———

Who is as the Christian great?Bought and washed with sacred blood,Crowns he sees beneath his feet.Soars aloft and walks with God.Lo, his clothing is the sun,The bright sun of righteousness;He hath put salvation on,Jesus is his beauteous dress.Angels are his servants here;Spread for him their golden wings;To his throne of glory bear,Seat him by the King of kings.—Charles Wesley.

Who is as the Christian great?Bought and washed with sacred blood,Crowns he sees beneath his feet.Soars aloft and walks with God.

Who is as the Christian great?

Bought and washed with sacred blood,

Crowns he sees beneath his feet.

Soars aloft and walks with God.

Lo, his clothing is the sun,The bright sun of righteousness;He hath put salvation on,Jesus is his beauteous dress.

Lo, his clothing is the sun,

The bright sun of righteousness;

He hath put salvation on,

Jesus is his beauteous dress.

Angels are his servants here;Spread for him their golden wings;To his throne of glory bear,Seat him by the King of kings.

Angels are his servants here;

Spread for him their golden wings;

To his throne of glory bear,

Seat him by the King of kings.

—Charles Wesley.

———

The glory is not in the task, but inThe doing it for Him.—Jean Ingelow.

The glory is not in the task, but inThe doing it for Him.

The glory is not in the task, but in

The doing it for Him.

—Jean Ingelow.

———

Three centuries before the Christian ageChina's great teacher, Mencius, was born;Her teeming millions did not know that mornHad broken on her darkness; that a sage,Reared by a noble mother, would her pageOf history forevermore adorn.For twenty years, from court to court, forlornHe journeyed, poverty his heritage,And preached of virtue, but none cared to hear.Life seemed a failure, like a barren rill;He wrote his books, and lay beneath the sod:When, lo! his work began; and far and nearAdown the ages Mencius preaches still:Do thy whole duty, trusting all to God.—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

Three centuries before the Christian age

China's great teacher, Mencius, was born;

Her teeming millions did not know that morn

Had broken on her darkness; that a sage,

Reared by a noble mother, would her page

Of history forevermore adorn.

For twenty years, from court to court, forlorn

He journeyed, poverty his heritage,

And preached of virtue, but none cared to hear.

Life seemed a failure, like a barren rill;

He wrote his books, and lay beneath the sod:

When, lo! his work began; and far and near

Adown the ages Mencius preaches still:

Do thy whole duty, trusting all to God.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

He stood, the youth they called the Beautiful,At morning, on his untried battle-field,And laughed with joy to see his stainless shield,When, with a tender smile, but doubting sigh,His lord rode by.When evening fell, they brought him, wounded sore,His battered shield with sword-thrusts gashed and rent,And laid him where the king stood by his tent."Now art thou Beautiful," the master said,And bared his head.—Annie M. L. Hawes.

He stood, the youth they called the Beautiful,At morning, on his untried battle-field,And laughed with joy to see his stainless shield,When, with a tender smile, but doubting sigh,His lord rode by.

He stood, the youth they called the Beautiful,

At morning, on his untried battle-field,

And laughed with joy to see his stainless shield,

When, with a tender smile, but doubting sigh,

His lord rode by.

When evening fell, they brought him, wounded sore,His battered shield with sword-thrusts gashed and rent,And laid him where the king stood by his tent."Now art thou Beautiful," the master said,And bared his head.

When evening fell, they brought him, wounded sore,

His battered shield with sword-thrusts gashed and rent,

And laid him where the king stood by his tent.

"Now art thou Beautiful," the master said,

And bared his head.

—Annie M. L. Hawes.

———

Great men grow greater by the lapse of time;We know those least whom we have seen the latest;And they, 'mongst those whose names have grown sublime,Who worked for human liberty are greatest.—John Boyle O'Reilly.

Great men grow greater by the lapse of time;We know those least whom we have seen the latest;And they, 'mongst those whose names have grown sublime,Who worked for human liberty are greatest.

Great men grow greater by the lapse of time;

We know those least whom we have seen the latest;

And they, 'mongst those whose names have grown sublime,

Who worked for human liberty are greatest.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

———

It is enough—Enough—just to be good;To lift our hearts where they are understood;To let the thirst for worldly power and placeGo unappeased; to smile back in God's faceWith the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.Ah! though we missAll else but this,To be good is enough!—James Whitcomb Riley.

It is enough—

Enough—just to be good;

To lift our hearts where they are understood;

To let the thirst for worldly power and place

Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face

With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.

Ah! though we miss

All else but this,

To be good is enough!

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

He who ascends to mountain tops shall findTheir loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow;He who surpasses or subdues mankindMust look down on the hate of those below.Though high above the sun of glory glow,And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blowContending tempests on his naked head.—George Gordon Byron.

He who ascends to mountain tops shall find

Their loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow;

He who surpasses or subdues mankind

Must look down on the hate of those below.

Though high above the sun of glory glow,

And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,

Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow

Contending tempests on his naked head.

—George Gordon Byron.

———

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,Is the immediate jewel of their souls:Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;But he that filches from me my good nameRobs me of that which not enriches him,And makes me poor indeed.—William Shakespeare.

Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,

Is the immediate jewel of their souls:

Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;

Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;

But he that filches from me my good name

Robs me of that which not enriches him,

And makes me poor indeed.

—William Shakespeare.

———

That man may last, but never lives,Who much receives but nothing gives;Whom none can love, whom none can thank;Creation's blot; creation's blank!But he who marks, from day to day,In generous acts his radiant wayTreads the same path his Saviour trod:The path to glory and to God.

That man may last, but never lives,Who much receives but nothing gives;Whom none can love, whom none can thank;Creation's blot; creation's blank!

That man may last, but never lives,

Who much receives but nothing gives;

Whom none can love, whom none can thank;

Creation's blot; creation's blank!

But he who marks, from day to day,In generous acts his radiant wayTreads the same path his Saviour trod:The path to glory and to God.

But he who marks, from day to day,

In generous acts his radiant way

Treads the same path his Saviour trod:

The path to glory and to God.

———

The eye with seeing is not filled,The ear with hearing not at rest;Desire with having is not stilled,With human praise no heart is blest.Vanity, then, of vanities,All things for which men grasp and grope!The precious things in heavenly eyesAre love, and truth, and trust, and hope.

The eye with seeing is not filled,The ear with hearing not at rest;Desire with having is not stilled,With human praise no heart is blest.

The eye with seeing is not filled,

The ear with hearing not at rest;

Desire with having is not stilled,

With human praise no heart is blest.

Vanity, then, of vanities,All things for which men grasp and grope!The precious things in heavenly eyesAre love, and truth, and trust, and hope.

Vanity, then, of vanities,

All things for which men grasp and grope!

The precious things in heavenly eyes

Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope.

———

A gem which falls within the mire will still a gem remain;Men's eyes turn downward to the earth and search for it with pain.Butdust, though whirled aloft to heaven, continues dust alway,More base and noxious in the air than when on earth it lay.—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

A gem which falls within the mire will still a gem remain;

Men's eyes turn downward to the earth and search for it with pain.

Butdust, though whirled aloft to heaven, continues dust alway,

More base and noxious in the air than when on earth it lay.

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

———

It was not anything she said;It was not anything she did;It was the movement of her head,The lifting of her lid.And as she trod her path arightPower from her very garments stole;For such is the mysterious mightGod grants a noble soul.

It was not anything she said;

It was not anything she did;

It was the movement of her head,

The lifting of her lid.

And as she trod her path aright

Power from her very garments stole;

For such is the mysterious might

God grants a noble soul.

———

True worth is in being, not seeming;In doing, each day that goes by,Some little good, not in dreaming,Of great things to do by and by.For whatever men say in their blindness,And spite of the fancies of youth,There's nothing so kingly as kindness,And nothing so royal as truth.—Alice Cary.

True worth is in being, not seeming;

In doing, each day that goes by,

Some little good, not in dreaming,

Of great things to do by and by.

For whatever men say in their blindness,

And spite of the fancies of youth,

There's nothing so kingly as kindness,

And nothing so royal as truth.

—Alice Cary.

———

The wisest man could ask no more of FateThan to be simple, modest, manly, true,Safe from the Many, honored by the Few;To count as naught in world of church or stateBut inwardly in secret to be great.—James Russell Lowell.

The wisest man could ask no more of FateThan to be simple, modest, manly, true,Safe from the Many, honored by the Few;To count as naught in world of church or stateBut inwardly in secret to be great.

The wisest man could ask no more of Fate

Than to be simple, modest, manly, true,

Safe from the Many, honored by the Few;

To count as naught in world of church or state

But inwardly in secret to be great.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,Shall draw the Thing as he sees it, for the God of Things as they are.—Rudyard Kipling.

And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;

And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;

But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,

Shall draw the Thing as he sees it, for the God of Things as they are.

—Rudyard Kipling.

———

In life's small things be resolute and greatTo keep thy muscle trained; knowest thou when FateThy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,"I find thee worthy; do this deed for me"?—James Russell Lowell.

In life's small things be resolute and greatTo keep thy muscle trained; knowest thou when FateThy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,"I find thee worthy; do this deed for me"?

In life's small things be resolute and great

To keep thy muscle trained; knowest thou when Fate

Thy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,

"I find thee worthy; do this deed for me"?

—James Russell Lowell.

———

'Tis a lifelong toil till our lump be leaven.The better! What's come to perfection perishes.Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven.Work done least rapidly Art most cherishes.—Robert Browning.

'Tis a lifelong toil till our lump be leaven.The better! What's come to perfection perishes.Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven.Work done least rapidly Art most cherishes.

'Tis a lifelong toil till our lump be leaven.

The better! What's come to perfection perishes.

Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven.

Work done least rapidly Art most cherishes.

—Robert Browning.

———

Let come what will, I mean to bear it out,And either live with glorious victoryOr die with fame, renowned in chivalry.He is not worthy of the honey-combThat shuns the hive because the bees have stings.—William Shakespeare.

Let come what will, I mean to bear it out,

And either live with glorious victory

Or die with fame, renowned in chivalry.

He is not worthy of the honey-comb

That shuns the hive because the bees have stings.

—William Shakespeare.

———

One by one thy duties wait thee,Let thy whole strength go to each.Let no future dreams elate thee,Learn thou first what these can teach.—Adelaide Anne Procter.

One by one thy duties wait thee,Let thy whole strength go to each.Let no future dreams elate thee,Learn thou first what these can teach.

One by one thy duties wait thee,

Let thy whole strength go to each.

Let no future dreams elate thee,

Learn thou first what these can teach.

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

———

Give me heart-touch with all that liveAnd strength to speak my word;But if that is denied me, giveThe strength to live unheard.—Edwin Markham.

Give me heart-touch with all that liveAnd strength to speak my word;But if that is denied me, giveThe strength to live unheard.

Give me heart-touch with all that live

And strength to speak my word;

But if that is denied me, give

The strength to live unheard.

—Edwin Markham.

———

Honor and shame from no condition rise;Act well your part, there all the honor lies—Alexander Pope.

Honor and shame from no condition rise;Act well your part, there all the honor lies

Honor and shame from no condition rise;

Act well your part, there all the honor lies

—Alexander Pope.

———

How wretched is the man with honors crowned,Who, having not the one thing needful found,Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

How wretched is the man with honors crowned,Who, having not the one thing needful found,Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.

How wretched is the man with honors crowned,

Who, having not the one thing needful found,

Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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