GREATNESS

How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill.Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death;Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame or private breath.Who envies none that chance doth raise,Or vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise,Nor rules of state but rules of good.Who hath his life from rumors freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make accusers great.Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend.This man is freed from servile bands,Of hope to rise or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.—Henry Wotton.

How happy is he born and taughtThat serveth not another's will;Whose armor is his honest thought,And simple truth his utmost skill.

How happy is he born and taught

That serveth not another's will;

Whose armor is his honest thought,

And simple truth his utmost skill.

Whose passions not his masters are,Whose soul is still prepared for death;Not tied unto the world with careOf public fame or private breath.

Whose passions not his masters are,

Whose soul is still prepared for death;

Not tied unto the world with care

Of public fame or private breath.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,Or vice; who never understoodHow deepest wounds are given by praise,Nor rules of state but rules of good.

Who envies none that chance doth raise,

Or vice; who never understood

How deepest wounds are given by praise,

Nor rules of state but rules of good.

Who hath his life from rumors freed,Whose conscience is his strong retreat;Whose state can neither flatterers feed,Nor ruin make accusers great.

Who hath his life from rumors freed,

Whose conscience is his strong retreat;

Whose state can neither flatterers feed,

Nor ruin make accusers great.

Who God doth late and early prayMore of his grace than gifts to lend;And entertains the harmless dayWith a well-chosen book or friend.

Who God doth late and early pray

More of his grace than gifts to lend;

And entertains the harmless day

With a well-chosen book or friend.

This man is freed from servile bands,Of hope to rise or fear to fall;Lord of himself, though not of lands,And having nothing, yet hath all.

This man is freed from servile bands,

Of hope to rise or fear to fall;

Lord of himself, though not of lands,

And having nothing, yet hath all.

—Henry Wotton.

———

High above hate I dwell;O storms, farewell!

High above hate I dwell;

O storms, farewell!

———

Out of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud;Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll;I am the master of my fate,I am the captain of my soul.—William Ernest Henley.

Out of the night that covers me,Black as the pit from pole to pole,I thank whatever gods may beFor my unconquerable soul.

Out of the night that covers me,

Black as the pit from pole to pole,

I thank whatever gods may be

For my unconquerable soul.

Beyond this place of wrath and tearsLooms but the horror of the shade,And yet the menace of the yearsFinds and shall find me unafraid.

Beyond this place of wrath and tears

Looms but the horror of the shade,

And yet the menace of the years

Finds and shall find me unafraid.

In the fell clutch of circumstanceI have not winced nor cried aloud;Under the bludgeonings of chanceMy head is bloody, but unbowed.

In the fell clutch of circumstance

I have not winced nor cried aloud;

Under the bludgeonings of chance

My head is bloody, but unbowed.

It matters not how strait the gate,How charged with punishments the scroll;I am the master of my fate,I am the captain of my soul.

It matters not how strait the gate,

How charged with punishments the scroll;

I am the master of my fate,

I am the captain of my soul.

—William Ernest Henley.

———

He stood before the Sanhedrim:The scowling rabbis gazed at him.He recked not of their praise or blame;There was no fear, there was no shame,For one upon whose dazzled eyesThe whole world poured its vast surprise.The open heaven was far too nearHis first day's light too sweet and clear,To let him waste his new-gained kenOn the hate-clouded face of men.But still they questioned, Who art thou?What hast thou been? What art thou now?Thou art not he who yesterdaySat here and begged beside the way,For he was blind."And I am he;For I was blind, but now I see."He told the story o'er and o'er;It was his full heart's only lore;A prophet on the Sabbath dayHad touched his sightless eyes with clay,And made him see who had been blind,Their words passed by him like the windWhich raves and howls, but cannot shockThe hundred-fathom-rooted rock.Their threats and fury all went wide;They could not touch his Hebrew pride.Their sneers at Jesus and his band,Nameless and homeless in the land,Their boasts of Moses and his Lord,All could not change him by one word."I know not what this man may be,Sinner or saint; but as for meOne thing I know: that I am heWho once was blind, and now I see."They were all doctors of renown,The great men of a famous townWith deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wiseBeneath their wide phylacteries;The wisdom of the East was theirs,And honor crowned their silvery hairs.The man they jeered, and laughed to scornWas unlearned, poor, and humbly born;But he knew better far than theyWhat came to him that Sabbath day;And what the Christ had done for himHe knew, and not the Sanhedrim.—John Hay.

He stood before the Sanhedrim:

The scowling rabbis gazed at him.

He recked not of their praise or blame;

There was no fear, there was no shame,

For one upon whose dazzled eyes

The whole world poured its vast surprise.

The open heaven was far too near

His first day's light too sweet and clear,

To let him waste his new-gained ken

On the hate-clouded face of men.

But still they questioned, Who art thou?What hast thou been? What art thou now?Thou art not he who yesterdaySat here and begged beside the way,For he was blind."And I am he;For I was blind, but now I see."

But still they questioned, Who art thou?

What hast thou been? What art thou now?

Thou art not he who yesterday

Sat here and begged beside the way,

For he was blind.

"And I am he;

For I was blind, but now I see."

He told the story o'er and o'er;It was his full heart's only lore;A prophet on the Sabbath dayHad touched his sightless eyes with clay,And made him see who had been blind,Their words passed by him like the windWhich raves and howls, but cannot shockThe hundred-fathom-rooted rock.

He told the story o'er and o'er;

It was his full heart's only lore;

A prophet on the Sabbath day

Had touched his sightless eyes with clay,

And made him see who had been blind,

Their words passed by him like the wind

Which raves and howls, but cannot shock

The hundred-fathom-rooted rock.

Their threats and fury all went wide;They could not touch his Hebrew pride.Their sneers at Jesus and his band,Nameless and homeless in the land,Their boasts of Moses and his Lord,All could not change him by one word.

Their threats and fury all went wide;

They could not touch his Hebrew pride.

Their sneers at Jesus and his band,

Nameless and homeless in the land,

Their boasts of Moses and his Lord,

All could not change him by one word.

"I know not what this man may be,Sinner or saint; but as for meOne thing I know: that I am heWho once was blind, and now I see."

"I know not what this man may be,

Sinner or saint; but as for me

One thing I know: that I am he

Who once was blind, and now I see."

They were all doctors of renown,The great men of a famous townWith deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wiseBeneath their wide phylacteries;The wisdom of the East was theirs,And honor crowned their silvery hairs.The man they jeered, and laughed to scornWas unlearned, poor, and humbly born;But he knew better far than theyWhat came to him that Sabbath day;And what the Christ had done for himHe knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

They were all doctors of renown,

The great men of a famous town

With deep brows, wrinkled, broad, and wise

Beneath their wide phylacteries;

The wisdom of the East was theirs,

And honor crowned their silvery hairs.

The man they jeered, and laughed to scorn

Was unlearned, poor, and humbly born;

But he knew better far than they

What came to him that Sabbath day;

And what the Christ had done for him

He knew, and not the Sanhedrim.

—John Hay.

———

Riches I hold in light esteem,And Love I laugh to scorn;And lust of fame was but a dream,That vanished with the morn.And, if I pray, the only prayerThat moves my lips for meIs, "Leave the heart that now I bear,And give me liberty!"Yes, as my swift days near their goal,'Tis all that I implore,In life and death a chainless soulAnd courage to endure.—Emily Brontë.

Riches I hold in light esteem,And Love I laugh to scorn;And lust of fame was but a dream,That vanished with the morn.

Riches I hold in light esteem,

And Love I laugh to scorn;

And lust of fame was but a dream,

That vanished with the morn.

And, if I pray, the only prayerThat moves my lips for meIs, "Leave the heart that now I bear,And give me liberty!"

And, if I pray, the only prayer

That moves my lips for me

Is, "Leave the heart that now I bear,

And give me liberty!"

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,'Tis all that I implore,In life and death a chainless soulAnd courage to endure.

Yes, as my swift days near their goal,

'Tis all that I implore,

In life and death a chainless soul

And courage to endure.

—Emily Brontë.

———

Keep to the right, within and without,With stranger and pilgrim and friend;Keep to the right and you need have no doubtThat all will be well in the end.Keep to the right in whatever you do,Nor claim but your own on the way;Keep to the right, and hold on to the true,From the morn to the close of life's day!

Keep to the right, within and without,

With stranger and pilgrim and friend;

Keep to the right and you need have no doubt

That all will be well in the end.

Keep to the right in whatever you do,

Nor claim but your own on the way;

Keep to the right, and hold on to the true,

From the morn to the close of life's day!

———

Is there for honest povertyThat hangs his head, and a' that?The coward slave, we pass him by,We dare be poor for a' that;For a' that and a' that;Our toils obscure and a' that;The rank is but the guinea-stamp,The man's the gowd for a' that.What though on hamely fare we dine,Wear hodden gray, and a' that:Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine,A man's a man for a' that;For a' that and a' that,Their tinsel show, and a' that,The honest man, though e'er sae poor,Is king o' men, for a' that.You see yon birkie ca'd a lord,Wha struts and stares, and a' that:Though hundreds worship at his wordHe's but a coof for a' that.For a' that and a' that,His riband, star, and a' that,The man of independent mind,He looks and laughs at a' that.A prince can mak a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a' that;But an honest man's aboon his might,Guid faith, he mauna fa' that,For a' that and a' that,Their dignities, and a' that,The pith of sense and pride o' worth,Are higher ranks than a' that.Then let us pray that come it may,As come it will, for a' that,That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,May bear the gree and a' that;For a' that and a' that,It's comin' yet for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be, for a' that.—Robert Burns.

Is there for honest poverty

That hangs his head, and a' that?

The coward slave, we pass him by,

We dare be poor for a' that;

For a' that and a' that;

Our toils obscure and a' that;

The rank is but the guinea-stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,Wear hodden gray, and a' that:Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine,A man's a man for a' that;For a' that and a' that,Their tinsel show, and a' that,The honest man, though e'er sae poor,Is king o' men, for a' that.

What though on hamely fare we dine,

Wear hodden gray, and a' that:

Gie fools their silks and knaves their wine,

A man's a man for a' that;

For a' that and a' that,

Their tinsel show, and a' that,

The honest man, though e'er sae poor,

Is king o' men, for a' that.

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord,Wha struts and stares, and a' that:Though hundreds worship at his wordHe's but a coof for a' that.For a' that and a' that,His riband, star, and a' that,The man of independent mind,He looks and laughs at a' that.

You see yon birkie ca'd a lord,

Wha struts and stares, and a' that:

Though hundreds worship at his word

He's but a coof for a' that.

For a' that and a' that,

His riband, star, and a' that,

The man of independent mind,

He looks and laughs at a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,A marquis, duke, and a' that;But an honest man's aboon his might,Guid faith, he mauna fa' that,For a' that and a' that,Their dignities, and a' that,The pith of sense and pride o' worth,Are higher ranks than a' that.

A prince can mak a belted knight,

A marquis, duke, and a' that;

But an honest man's aboon his might,

Guid faith, he mauna fa' that,

For a' that and a' that,

Their dignities, and a' that,

The pith of sense and pride o' worth,

Are higher ranks than a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,As come it will, for a' that,That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,May bear the gree and a' that;For a' that and a' that,It's comin' yet for a' that,That man to man, the warld o'er,Shall brothers be, for a' that.

Then let us pray that come it may,

As come it will, for a' that,

That sense and worth o'er a' the earth,

May bear the gree and a' that;

For a' that and a' that,

It's comin' yet for a' that,

That man to man, the warld o'er,

Shall brothers be, for a' that.

—Robert Burns.

———

Stone walls do not a prison make,Nor iron bars a cage;Minds innocent and quiet takeThat for a hermitage;If I have freedom in my love,And in my soul am free,Angels alone, that soar above,Enjoy such liberty.—Richard Lovelace.

Stone walls do not a prison make,

Nor iron bars a cage;

Minds innocent and quiet take

That for a hermitage;

If I have freedom in my love,

And in my soul am free,

Angels alone, that soar above,

Enjoy such liberty.

—Richard Lovelace.

———

(A new song to an old tune.)

"A man's a man," says Robert Burns,"For a' that and a' that";But though the song be clear and strongIt lacks a note for a' that.The lout who'd shirk his daily work,Yet claim his wage and a' that,Or beg when he might earn his bread,Isnota man for a' that.If all who "dine on homely fare"Were true and brave and a' that,And none whose garb is "hodden gray"Was fool or knave and a' that,The vice and crime that shame our timeWould disappear and a' that,And plowmen be as great as kings,And churls as earls for a' that.But 'tis not so; yon brawny fool,Who swaggers, swears, and a' that,And thinks because his strong right armMight fell an ox, and a' that,That he's as noble, man for man,As duke or lord, and a' that,Is but an animal at bestButnota man for a' that.A man may own a large estate,Have palace, park, and a' that,And not for birth, but honest worth,Be thrice a man for a' that.And Sawnie, herding on the moor,Who beats his wife and a' that,Is nothing but a brutal boor,Nor half a man for a' that.It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,The truth is old, and a' that,The rankisbut the guinea's stamp,The man's the gowd for a' that.And though you'd put the self-same markOn copper, brass, and a' that,The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,And will not pass for a' that."For a' that and a' that"'Tis soul and heart and a' thatThat makes a king a gentleman,And not his crown for a' that.And whether he be rich or poorThe best is he, for a' that,Who stands erect in self-respect,And acts the man for a' that.—Charles Mackay.

"A man's a man," says Robert Burns,

"For a' that and a' that";

But though the song be clear and strong

It lacks a note for a' that.

The lout who'd shirk his daily work,

Yet claim his wage and a' that,

Or beg when he might earn his bread,

Isnota man for a' that.

If all who "dine on homely fare"Were true and brave and a' that,And none whose garb is "hodden gray"Was fool or knave and a' that,The vice and crime that shame our timeWould disappear and a' that,And plowmen be as great as kings,And churls as earls for a' that.

If all who "dine on homely fare"

Were true and brave and a' that,

And none whose garb is "hodden gray"

Was fool or knave and a' that,

The vice and crime that shame our time

Would disappear and a' that,

And plowmen be as great as kings,

And churls as earls for a' that.

But 'tis not so; yon brawny fool,Who swaggers, swears, and a' that,And thinks because his strong right armMight fell an ox, and a' that,That he's as noble, man for man,As duke or lord, and a' that,Is but an animal at bestButnota man for a' that.

But 'tis not so; yon brawny fool,

Who swaggers, swears, and a' that,

And thinks because his strong right arm

Might fell an ox, and a' that,

That he's as noble, man for man,

As duke or lord, and a' that,

Is but an animal at best

Butnota man for a' that.

A man may own a large estate,Have palace, park, and a' that,And not for birth, but honest worth,Be thrice a man for a' that.And Sawnie, herding on the moor,Who beats his wife and a' that,Is nothing but a brutal boor,Nor half a man for a' that.

A man may own a large estate,

Have palace, park, and a' that,

And not for birth, but honest worth,

Be thrice a man for a' that.

And Sawnie, herding on the moor,

Who beats his wife and a' that,

Is nothing but a brutal boor,

Nor half a man for a' that.

It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,The truth is old, and a' that,The rankisbut the guinea's stamp,The man's the gowd for a' that.And though you'd put the self-same markOn copper, brass, and a' that,The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,And will not pass for a' that.

It comes to this, dear Robert Burns,

The truth is old, and a' that,

The rankisbut the guinea's stamp,

The man's the gowd for a' that.

And though you'd put the self-same mark

On copper, brass, and a' that,

The lie is gross, the cheat is plain,

And will not pass for a' that.

"For a' that and a' that"'Tis soul and heart and a' thatThat makes a king a gentleman,And not his crown for a' that.And whether he be rich or poorThe best is he, for a' that,Who stands erect in self-respect,And acts the man for a' that.

"For a' that and a' that"

'Tis soul and heart and a' that

That makes a king a gentleman,

And not his crown for a' that.

And whether he be rich or poor

The best is he, for a' that,

Who stands erect in self-respect,

And acts the man for a' that.

—Charles Mackay.

———

The knightly legend on thy shield betraysThe moral of thy life; a forecast wise,And that large honor that deceit defies,Inspired thy fathers in the elder days,Who decked thy scutcheon with that sturdy phrase,To be, rather than seem.As eve's red skiesSurpass the morning's rosy prophecies,Thy life to that proud boast its answer pays,Scorning thy faith and purpose to defend.The ever-mutable multitude at lastWill hail the power they did not comprehend—Thy fame will broaden through the centuries;As, storm and billowy tumult overpast,The moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas.—John Hay.

The knightly legend on thy shield betrays

The moral of thy life; a forecast wise,

And that large honor that deceit defies,

Inspired thy fathers in the elder days,

Who decked thy scutcheon with that sturdy phrase,

To be, rather than seem.As eve's red skies

Surpass the morning's rosy prophecies,

Thy life to that proud boast its answer pays,

Scorning thy faith and purpose to defend.

The ever-mutable multitude at last

Will hail the power they did not comprehend—

Thy fame will broaden through the centuries;

As, storm and billowy tumult overpast,

The moon rules calmly o'er the conquered seas.

—John Hay.

———

Man was not made for forms, but forms for man,And there are times when law itself must bendTo that clear spirit always in the van,Outspeeding human justice. In the endPotentates, not humanity, must fall.Water will find its level, fire will burn,The winds must blow around the earthly ball,The earthly ball by day and night must turn;Freedom is typed in every element,Man must be free, if not through law, why thenAbove the law, until its force be spentAnd justice brings a better. But, O, when,Father of Light, when shall the reckoning comeTo lift the weak, and strike the oppressor dumb.—Christopher Pearse Cranch.

Man was not made for forms, but forms for man,

And there are times when law itself must bend

To that clear spirit always in the van,

Outspeeding human justice. In the end

Potentates, not humanity, must fall.

Water will find its level, fire will burn,

The winds must blow around the earthly ball,

The earthly ball by day and night must turn;

Freedom is typed in every element,

Man must be free, if not through law, why then

Above the law, until its force be spent

And justice brings a better. But, O, when,

Father of Light, when shall the reckoning come

To lift the weak, and strike the oppressor dumb.

—Christopher Pearse Cranch.

———

What I am, what I am not, in the eyeOf the world, is what I never cared for much.—Robert Browning.

What I am, what I am not, in the eyeOf the world, is what I never cared for much.

What I am, what I am not, in the eye

Of the world, is what I never cared for much.

—Robert Browning.

———

To keep my health;To do my work;To live;To see to it that I grow and gain and give;Never to look behind me for an hour;To wait in meekness, and to walk in power;But always fronting onward, to the light,Always and always facing toward the right.Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide-astray—On, with what strength I have—Back to the way.—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

To keep my health;

To do my work;

To live;

To see to it that I grow and gain and give;

Never to look behind me for an hour;

To wait in meekness, and to walk in power;

But always fronting onward, to the light,

Always and always facing toward the right.

Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide-astray—

On, with what strength I have—

Back to the way.

—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

———

I do not ask for any crownBut that which all may win;Nor try to conquer any worldExcept the one within.Be thou my guide until I findLed by a tender hand,The happy kingdom in myselfAnd dare to take command.—Louisa May Alcott.

I do not ask for any crown

But that which all may win;

Nor try to conquer any world

Except the one within.

Be thou my guide until I find

Led by a tender hand,

The happy kingdom in myself

And dare to take command.

—Louisa May Alcott.

———

This is my creed,This is my deed:"Hide not thy heart!"Soon we depart;Mortals are all;A breath, then the pall;A flash on the dark—All's done—stiff and stark.No time for a lie;The truth, and then die.Hide not thy heart!Forth with thy thought!Soon 'twill be naught,And thou in thy tomb.Now is air, now is room.Down with false shame;Reck not of fame;Dread not man's spite;Quench not thy light.This be thy creed,This be thy deed:"Hide not thy heart!"If God is, he madeSunshine and shade,Heaven and hell;This we know well.Dost thou believe?Do not deceive;Scorn not thy faith—If 'tis a wraithSoon it will fly.Thou who must die,Hide not thy heart!This is my creed,This be my deed:Faith, or a doubt,I shall speak out—And hide not my heart.—Richard Watson Gilder.

This is my creed,

This is my deed:

"Hide not thy heart!"

Soon we depart;

Mortals are all;

A breath, then the pall;

A flash on the dark—

All's done—stiff and stark.

No time for a lie;

The truth, and then die.

Hide not thy heart!

Forth with thy thought!Soon 'twill be naught,And thou in thy tomb.Now is air, now is room.Down with false shame;Reck not of fame;Dread not man's spite;Quench not thy light.This be thy creed,This be thy deed:"Hide not thy heart!"

Forth with thy thought!

Soon 'twill be naught,

And thou in thy tomb.

Now is air, now is room.

Down with false shame;

Reck not of fame;

Dread not man's spite;

Quench not thy light.

This be thy creed,

This be thy deed:

"Hide not thy heart!"

If God is, he madeSunshine and shade,Heaven and hell;This we know well.Dost thou believe?Do not deceive;Scorn not thy faith—If 'tis a wraithSoon it will fly.Thou who must die,Hide not thy heart!

If God is, he made

Sunshine and shade,

Heaven and hell;

This we know well.

Dost thou believe?

Do not deceive;

Scorn not thy faith—

If 'tis a wraith

Soon it will fly.

Thou who must die,

Hide not thy heart!

This is my creed,This be my deed:Faith, or a doubt,I shall speak out—And hide not my heart.

This is my creed,

This be my deed:

Faith, or a doubt,

I shall speak out—

And hide not my heart.

—Richard Watson Gilder.

———

(Psa.xv.)

'Tis he whose every thought and deedBy rule of virtue moves;Whose generous tongue disdains to speakThe thing his heart disproves.Who never did a slander forgeHis neighbor's fame to wound;Nor hearken to a false reportBy malice whispered round.Who vice in all its pomp and powerCan treat with just neglect;And piety, though clothed in rags,Religiously respect.Who to his plighted word of truthHas ever firmly stood;And, though he promised to his loss,Still makes his promise good.Whose soul in usury disdainsHis treasure to employ;Whom no reward can ever bribeThe guiltless to destroy.

'Tis he whose every thought and deedBy rule of virtue moves;Whose generous tongue disdains to speakThe thing his heart disproves.

'Tis he whose every thought and deed

By rule of virtue moves;

Whose generous tongue disdains to speak

The thing his heart disproves.

Who never did a slander forgeHis neighbor's fame to wound;Nor hearken to a false reportBy malice whispered round.

Who never did a slander forge

His neighbor's fame to wound;

Nor hearken to a false report

By malice whispered round.

Who vice in all its pomp and powerCan treat with just neglect;And piety, though clothed in rags,Religiously respect.

Who vice in all its pomp and power

Can treat with just neglect;

And piety, though clothed in rags,

Religiously respect.

Who to his plighted word of truthHas ever firmly stood;And, though he promised to his loss,Still makes his promise good.

Who to his plighted word of truth

Has ever firmly stood;

And, though he promised to his loss,

Still makes his promise good.

Whose soul in usury disdainsHis treasure to employ;Whom no reward can ever bribeThe guiltless to destroy.

Whose soul in usury disdains

His treasure to employ;

Whom no reward can ever bribe

The guiltless to destroy.

———

I hold it as a changeless law,From which no soul can sway or swerve,We have that in us which will drawWhate'er we need or most deserve.

I hold it as a changeless law,

From which no soul can sway or swerve,

We have that in us which will draw

Whate'er we need or most deserve.

———

Thou must be true thyselfIf thou the truth wouldst teach;Thy soul must overflow if thouAnother's soul wouldst reach.It needs the overflow of heartTo give the lips full speech.Think truly, and thy thoughtsShall the world's famine feed;Speak truly, and each word of thineShall be a fruitful seed;Live truly, and thy life shall beA great and noble creed.—Horatius Bonar.

Thou must be true thyselfIf thou the truth wouldst teach;Thy soul must overflow if thouAnother's soul wouldst reach.It needs the overflow of heartTo give the lips full speech.

Thou must be true thyself

If thou the truth wouldst teach;

Thy soul must overflow if thou

Another's soul wouldst reach.

It needs the overflow of heart

To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thoughtsShall the world's famine feed;Speak truly, and each word of thineShall be a fruitful seed;Live truly, and thy life shall beA great and noble creed.

Think truly, and thy thoughts

Shall the world's famine feed;

Speak truly, and each word of thine

Shall be a fruitful seed;

Live truly, and thy life shall be

A great and noble creed.

—Horatius Bonar.

———

Keep pure thy soul!Then shalt thou take the wholeOf delight;Then, without a pang,Thine shall be all of beauty whereof the poet sang—The perfume and the pageant, the melody, the mirth,Of the golden day and the starry night;Of heaven and of earth.Oh, keep pure thy soul!—Richard Watson Gilder.

Keep pure thy soul!

Then shalt thou take the whole

Of delight;

Then, without a pang,

Thine shall be all of beauty whereof the poet sang—

The perfume and the pageant, the melody, the mirth,

Of the golden day and the starry night;

Of heaven and of earth.

Oh, keep pure thy soul!

—Richard Watson Gilder.

———

Somebody did a golden deed;Somebody proved a friend in need;Somebody sang a beautiful song;Somebody smiled the whole daylong;Somebody thought, "'Tis sweet to live."Somebody said, "I'm glad to give";Somebody fought a valiant fight;Somebody lived to shield the right;Was it you?

Somebody did a golden deed;

Somebody proved a friend in need;

Somebody sang a beautiful song;

Somebody smiled the whole daylong;

Somebody thought, "'Tis sweet to live."

Somebody said, "I'm glad to give";

Somebody fought a valiant fight;

Somebody lived to shield the right;

Was it you?

———

Then draw we nearer, day by day,Each to his brethren, all to God;Let the world take us as she may,We must not change our road;Not wondering, though in grief, to findThe martyr's foe still keep her mind;But fixed to hold Love's banner fast,And by submission win at last.—John Keble.

Then draw we nearer, day by day,

Each to his brethren, all to God;

Let the world take us as she may,

We must not change our road;

Not wondering, though in grief, to find

The martyr's foe still keep her mind;

But fixed to hold Love's banner fast,

And by submission win at last.

—John Keble.

———

Knowing, what all experience serves to show,No mud can soil us but the mud we throw.—James Russell Lowell.

Knowing, what all experience serves to show,No mud can soil us but the mud we throw.

Knowing, what all experience serves to show,

No mud can soil us but the mud we throw.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

Be no imitator; freshly act thy part;Through this world be thou an independent ranger;Better is the faith that springeth from thy heartThan a better faith belonging to a stranger.—From the Persian.

Be no imitator; freshly act thy part;Through this world be thou an independent ranger;Better is the faith that springeth from thy heartThan a better faith belonging to a stranger.

Be no imitator; freshly act thy part;

Through this world be thou an independent ranger;

Better is the faith that springeth from thy heart

Than a better faith belonging to a stranger.

—From the Persian.

———

None but one can harm you,None but yourself who are your greatest foe,He that respects himself is safe from others,He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

None but one can harm you,None but yourself who are your greatest foe,He that respects himself is safe from others,He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

None but one can harm you,

None but yourself who are your greatest foe,

He that respects himself is safe from others,

He wears a coat of mail that none can pierce.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

And some innative weakness there must beIn him that condescends to victorySuch as thepresentgives, and cannot wait—Safe in himself as in a fate.—James Russell Lowell.

And some innative weakness there must beIn him that condescends to victorySuch as thepresentgives, and cannot wait—Safe in himself as in a fate.

And some innative weakness there must be

In him that condescends to victory

Such as thepresentgives, and cannot wait—

Safe in himself as in a fate.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

To be the thing we seem,To do the thing we deemEnjoined by duty;To walk in faith, nor dreamOf questioning God's schemeOf truth and beauty.

To be the thing we seem,

To do the thing we deem

Enjoined by duty;

To walk in faith, nor dream

Of questioning God's scheme

Of truth and beauty.

———

To live by law, acting the law we live by without fear,And, because right is right, to follow right,Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.—Alfred Tennyson.

To live by law, acting the law we live by without fear,And, because right is right, to follow right,Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.

To live by law, acting the law we live by without fear,

And, because right is right, to follow right,

Were wisdom, in the scorn of consequence.

—Alfred Tennyson.

———

Though love repine, and reason chafe,There came a voice without reply:"'Tis man's perdition to be safe,When for the truth he ought to die."—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Though love repine, and reason chafe,There came a voice without reply:"'Tis man's perdition to be safe,When for the truth he ought to die."

Though love repine, and reason chafe,

There came a voice without reply:

"'Tis man's perdition to be safe,

When for the truth he ought to die."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

Whatever you are—be that;Whatever you say—be true;Straightforwardly act—Be honest—in factBe nobody else but you.

Whatever you are—be that;

Whatever you say—be true;

Straightforwardly act—

Be honest—in fact

Be nobody else but you.

———

If thouhastsomething, bring thy goods;A fair exchange be thine!If thouartsomething, bring thy soul,And interchange with mine.—Schiller, tr. by Edward Bulwer Lytton.

If thouhastsomething, bring thy goods;A fair exchange be thine!If thouartsomething, bring thy soul,And interchange with mine.

If thouhastsomething, bring thy goods;

A fair exchange be thine!

If thouartsomething, bring thy soul,

And interchange with mine.

—Schiller, tr. by Edward Bulwer Lytton.

———

However others act toward thee,Act thou toward them as seemeth right;And whatsoever others be,Be thou the child of love and light.

However others act toward thee,

Act thou toward them as seemeth right;

And whatsoever others be,

Be thou the child of love and light.

———

This above all: to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.—William Shakespeare.

This above all: to thine own self be true,And it must follow, as the night the day,Thou canst not then be false to any man.

This above all: to thine own self be true,

And it must follow, as the night the day,

Thou canst not then be false to any man.

—William Shakespeare.

———

My time is short enough at best,I push right onward while I may;I open to the winds my breast,And walk the way.—John Vance Cheney.

My time is short enough at best,I push right onward while I may;I open to the winds my breast,And walk the way.

My time is short enough at best,

I push right onward while I may;

I open to the winds my breast,

And walk the way.

—John Vance Cheney.

———

Not in the clamor of the crowded street,Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,But in ourselves are triumph and defeat.—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street,Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,But in ourselves are triumph and defeat.

Not in the clamor of the crowded street,

Not in the shouts and plaudits of the throng,

But in ourselves are triumph and defeat.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

It becomes no man to nurse despair,But in the teeth of clenched antagonismsTo follow up the worthiest till he die.—Alfred Tennyson.

It becomes no man to nurse despair,But in the teeth of clenched antagonismsTo follow up the worthiest till he die.

It becomes no man to nurse despair,

But in the teeth of clenched antagonisms

To follow up the worthiest till he die.

—Alfred Tennyson.

That man is great, and he alone,Who serves a greatness not his own,For neither praise nor pelf;Content to know and be unknown:Whole in himself.Strong is that man, he only strong,To whose well-ordered will belong,For service and delight,All powers that, in the face of Wrong,Establish Right.And free is he, and only he,Who, from his tyrant passions free,By Fortune undismayed,Hath power upon himself, to beBy himself obeyed.If such a man there be, where'erBeneath the sun and moon he fare,He cannot fare amiss;Great Nature hath him in her care,Her cause is his;Who holds by everlasting lawWhich neither chance nor change can flaw,Whose steadfast course is oneWith whatsoever forces drawThe ages on;Who hath not bowed his honest headTo base Occasion; nor, in dreadOf Duty, shunned her eye;Nor truckled to loud times; nor wedHis heart to a lie;Nor feared to follow, in the offenseOf false opinion, his own senseOf justice unsubdued;Nor shrunk from any consequenceOf doing good;He looks his Angel in the faceWithout a blush; nor heeds disgraceWhom naught disgraceful doneDisgraces. Who knows nothing baseFears nothing known.Not morseled out from day to dayIn feverish wishes, nor the preyOf hours that have no plan,His life is whole, to give awayTo God and man.For though he live aloof from ken,The world's unwitnessed denizen,The love within him stirsAbroad, and with the hearts of menHis own confers.The judge upon the justice-seat;The brown-backed beggar in the street;The spinner in the sun;The reapers reaping in the wheat;The wan-cheeked nunIn cloisters cold; the prisoner leanIn lightless den, the robèd queen;Even the youth who waits,Hiding the knife, to glide unseenBetween the gates—He nothing human alien deemsUnto himself, nor disesteemsMan's meanest claim upon him.And where he walks the mere sunbeamsDrop blessings on him.Because they know him Nature's friend,One whom she doth delight to tendWith loving kindness ever:Helping and heartening to the endHis high endeavor.—Edward Bulwer Lytton.

That man is great, and he alone,Who serves a greatness not his own,For neither praise nor pelf;Content to know and be unknown:Whole in himself.

That man is great, and he alone,

Who serves a greatness not his own,

For neither praise nor pelf;

Content to know and be unknown:

Whole in himself.

Strong is that man, he only strong,To whose well-ordered will belong,For service and delight,All powers that, in the face of Wrong,Establish Right.

Strong is that man, he only strong,

To whose well-ordered will belong,

For service and delight,

All powers that, in the face of Wrong,

Establish Right.

And free is he, and only he,Who, from his tyrant passions free,By Fortune undismayed,Hath power upon himself, to beBy himself obeyed.

And free is he, and only he,

Who, from his tyrant passions free,

By Fortune undismayed,

Hath power upon himself, to be

By himself obeyed.

If such a man there be, where'erBeneath the sun and moon he fare,He cannot fare amiss;Great Nature hath him in her care,Her cause is his;

If such a man there be, where'er

Beneath the sun and moon he fare,

He cannot fare amiss;

Great Nature hath him in her care,

Her cause is his;

Who holds by everlasting lawWhich neither chance nor change can flaw,Whose steadfast course is oneWith whatsoever forces drawThe ages on;

Who holds by everlasting law

Which neither chance nor change can flaw,

Whose steadfast course is one

With whatsoever forces draw

The ages on;

Who hath not bowed his honest headTo base Occasion; nor, in dreadOf Duty, shunned her eye;Nor truckled to loud times; nor wedHis heart to a lie;

Who hath not bowed his honest head

To base Occasion; nor, in dread

Of Duty, shunned her eye;

Nor truckled to loud times; nor wed

His heart to a lie;

Nor feared to follow, in the offenseOf false opinion, his own senseOf justice unsubdued;Nor shrunk from any consequenceOf doing good;

Nor feared to follow, in the offense

Of false opinion, his own sense

Of justice unsubdued;

Nor shrunk from any consequence

Of doing good;

He looks his Angel in the faceWithout a blush; nor heeds disgraceWhom naught disgraceful doneDisgraces. Who knows nothing baseFears nothing known.

He looks his Angel in the face

Without a blush; nor heeds disgrace

Whom naught disgraceful done

Disgraces. Who knows nothing base

Fears nothing known.

Not morseled out from day to dayIn feverish wishes, nor the preyOf hours that have no plan,His life is whole, to give awayTo God and man.

Not morseled out from day to day

In feverish wishes, nor the prey

Of hours that have no plan,

His life is whole, to give away

To God and man.

For though he live aloof from ken,The world's unwitnessed denizen,The love within him stirsAbroad, and with the hearts of menHis own confers.

For though he live aloof from ken,

The world's unwitnessed denizen,

The love within him stirs

Abroad, and with the hearts of men

His own confers.

The judge upon the justice-seat;The brown-backed beggar in the street;The spinner in the sun;The reapers reaping in the wheat;The wan-cheeked nun

The judge upon the justice-seat;

The brown-backed beggar in the street;

The spinner in the sun;

The reapers reaping in the wheat;

The wan-cheeked nun

In cloisters cold; the prisoner leanIn lightless den, the robèd queen;Even the youth who waits,Hiding the knife, to glide unseenBetween the gates—

In cloisters cold; the prisoner lean

In lightless den, the robèd queen;

Even the youth who waits,

Hiding the knife, to glide unseen

Between the gates—

He nothing human alien deemsUnto himself, nor disesteemsMan's meanest claim upon him.And where he walks the mere sunbeamsDrop blessings on him.

He nothing human alien deems

Unto himself, nor disesteems

Man's meanest claim upon him.

And where he walks the mere sunbeams

Drop blessings on him.

Because they know him Nature's friend,One whom she doth delight to tendWith loving kindness ever:Helping and heartening to the endHis high endeavor.

Because they know him Nature's friend,

One whom she doth delight to tend

With loving kindness ever:

Helping and heartening to the end

His high endeavor.

—Edward Bulwer Lytton.

———

What shall I do lest life in silence pass?"And if it do,And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,What need'st thou rue?Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute—The shallows roar;Worth is the ocean—fame is but the bruitAlong the shore."What shall I do to be forever known?"Thy duty ever!"This did full many who yet slept unknown."O never, never!Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknownWhom thou know'st not?By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown—Divine their lot."What shall I do, an heir of endless life?"Discharge arightThe simple dues with which each day is rife,Yea, with thy might.Ere perfect scheme of action thou deviseWill life be fled,While he who ever acts as conscience cries,Shall live, though dead."—Johann C. F. Schiller.

What shall I do lest life in silence pass?

"And if it do,

And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,

What need'st thou rue?

Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute—

The shallows roar;

Worth is the ocean—fame is but the bruit

Along the shore."

What shall I do to be forever known?"Thy duty ever!"This did full many who yet slept unknown."O never, never!Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknownWhom thou know'st not?By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown—Divine their lot."

What shall I do to be forever known?

"Thy duty ever!"

This did full many who yet slept unknown.

"O never, never!

Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknown

Whom thou know'st not?

By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown—

Divine their lot."

What shall I do, an heir of endless life?"Discharge arightThe simple dues with which each day is rife,Yea, with thy might.Ere perfect scheme of action thou deviseWill life be fled,While he who ever acts as conscience cries,Shall live, though dead."

What shall I do, an heir of endless life?

"Discharge aright

The simple dues with which each day is rife,

Yea, with thy might.

Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise

Will life be fled,

While he who ever acts as conscience cries,

Shall live, though dead."

—Johann C. F. Schiller.

———

There are hearts which never falterIn the battle for the right;There are ranks which never alterWatching through the darkest night;And the agony of sharingIn the fiercest of the strifeOnly gives a nobler daring,Only makes a grander life.There are those who never wearyBearing suffering and wrong;Though the way is long and drearyIt is vocal with their song,While their spirits in God's furnace,Bending to His gracious will,Are fashioned in a purer moldBy His loving, matchless skill.There are those whose loving mission'Tis to bind the bleeding heart;And to teach a calm submissionWhen the pain and sorrow smart.They are angels, bearing to usLove's rich ministry of peace,While the night is nearing to usWhen life's bitter trials cease.There are those who battle slander,Envy, jealousy and hate;Who would rather die than panderTo the passions of earth's great;No earthly power can ever crush them,They dread not the tyrant's frown;Fear or favor cannot hush them,Nothing bind their spirits down.These, these alone are truly great;These are the conquerors of fate;These truly live, they never die;But, clothed with immortality,When they lay their armor downShall enter and receive the crown.

There are hearts which never falter

In the battle for the right;

There are ranks which never alter

Watching through the darkest night;

And the agony of sharing

In the fiercest of the strife

Only gives a nobler daring,

Only makes a grander life.

There are those who never wearyBearing suffering and wrong;Though the way is long and drearyIt is vocal with their song,While their spirits in God's furnace,Bending to His gracious will,Are fashioned in a purer moldBy His loving, matchless skill.

There are those who never weary

Bearing suffering and wrong;

Though the way is long and dreary

It is vocal with their song,

While their spirits in God's furnace,

Bending to His gracious will,

Are fashioned in a purer mold

By His loving, matchless skill.

There are those whose loving mission'Tis to bind the bleeding heart;And to teach a calm submissionWhen the pain and sorrow smart.They are angels, bearing to usLove's rich ministry of peace,While the night is nearing to usWhen life's bitter trials cease.

There are those whose loving mission

'Tis to bind the bleeding heart;

And to teach a calm submission

When the pain and sorrow smart.

They are angels, bearing to us

Love's rich ministry of peace,

While the night is nearing to us

When life's bitter trials cease.

There are those who battle slander,Envy, jealousy and hate;Who would rather die than panderTo the passions of earth's great;No earthly power can ever crush them,They dread not the tyrant's frown;Fear or favor cannot hush them,Nothing bind their spirits down.

There are those who battle slander,

Envy, jealousy and hate;

Who would rather die than pander

To the passions of earth's great;

No earthly power can ever crush them,

They dread not the tyrant's frown;

Fear or favor cannot hush them,

Nothing bind their spirits down.

These, these alone are truly great;These are the conquerors of fate;These truly live, they never die;But, clothed with immortality,When they lay their armor downShall enter and receive the crown.

These, these alone are truly great;

These are the conquerors of fate;

These truly live, they never die;

But, clothed with immortality,

When they lay their armor down

Shall enter and receive the crown.

———

To play through life a perfect part,Unnoticed and unknown;To seek no rest in any heartSave only God alone;In little things to own no will.To have no share in great;To find the labor ready stillAnd for the crown to wait.Upon the brow to bear no traceOf more than common care;To write no secret in the faceFor men to read it there;The daily cross to clasp and blessWith such familiar zealAs hides from all that not the lessThe daily weight you feel;In toils that praise will never pay,To see your life go past;To meet in every coming dayTwin sister of the last;To hear of high heroic things,And yield them reverence due,But feel life's daily sufferingsAre far more fit for you;To own no secret, soft disguiseTo which self-love is prone,Unnoticed by all other eyes,Unworthy in your own;To yield with such a happy art,That no one thinks you care,And say to your poor bleeding heart,"How little you can bear!"O 'tis a pathway hard to choose,A struggle hard to share;For human pride would still refuseThe nameless trials there.But since we know the gate is lowThat leads to heavenly bliss,What higher grace could God bestowThan such a life as this?—Adelaide Anne Procter.

To play through life a perfect part,

Unnoticed and unknown;

To seek no rest in any heart

Save only God alone;

In little things to own no will.

To have no share in great;

To find the labor ready still

And for the crown to wait.

Upon the brow to bear no traceOf more than common care;To write no secret in the faceFor men to read it there;The daily cross to clasp and blessWith such familiar zealAs hides from all that not the lessThe daily weight you feel;

Upon the brow to bear no trace

Of more than common care;

To write no secret in the face

For men to read it there;

The daily cross to clasp and bless

With such familiar zeal

As hides from all that not the less

The daily weight you feel;

In toils that praise will never pay,To see your life go past;To meet in every coming dayTwin sister of the last;To hear of high heroic things,And yield them reverence due,But feel life's daily sufferingsAre far more fit for you;

In toils that praise will never pay,

To see your life go past;

To meet in every coming day

Twin sister of the last;

To hear of high heroic things,

And yield them reverence due,

But feel life's daily sufferings

Are far more fit for you;

To own no secret, soft disguiseTo which self-love is prone,Unnoticed by all other eyes,Unworthy in your own;To yield with such a happy art,That no one thinks you care,And say to your poor bleeding heart,"How little you can bear!"

To own no secret, soft disguise

To which self-love is prone,

Unnoticed by all other eyes,

Unworthy in your own;

To yield with such a happy art,

That no one thinks you care,

And say to your poor bleeding heart,

"How little you can bear!"

O 'tis a pathway hard to choose,A struggle hard to share;For human pride would still refuseThe nameless trials there.But since we know the gate is lowThat leads to heavenly bliss,What higher grace could God bestowThan such a life as this?

O 'tis a pathway hard to choose,

A struggle hard to share;

For human pride would still refuse

The nameless trials there.

But since we know the gate is low

That leads to heavenly bliss,

What higher grace could God bestow

Than such a life as this?

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

———

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you,For every day.Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;Do noble things, not dream them all day long;And so make life, death, and that vast forever,One grand, sweet song!—Charles Kingsley.

My fairest child, I have no song to give you;

No lark could pipe to skies so dull and gray;

Yet, ere we part, one lesson I can leave you,

For every day.

Be good, sweet maid, and let who will be clever;

Do noble things, not dream them all day long;

And so make life, death, and that vast forever,

One grand, sweet song!

—Charles Kingsley.

———

We who have lost the battleTo you who have fought and won:Give ye good cheer and greeting!Stoutly and bravely done!Reach us a hand in passing,Comrades—and own the name!Yours is the thrill and the laurel:Ours is the smart and shame.Though we were nothing skillful,Pity us not nor scorn!Send us a hail as hearty—"Stoutly and bravely borne!"Others may scorn or pity;You who are soldiers know.Where was the joy of your battleSave in the grip with the foe?Did we not stand to the conflict?Did we not fairly fall?Is it your crowns ye care for?Nay, to have fought is all.Humbled and sore we watch you,Cheerful and bruised and lamed.Take the applause of the conquered—Conquered and unashamed!—Alice Van Vliet.

We who have lost the battleTo you who have fought and won:Give ye good cheer and greeting!Stoutly and bravely done!

We who have lost the battle

To you who have fought and won:

Give ye good cheer and greeting!

Stoutly and bravely done!

Reach us a hand in passing,Comrades—and own the name!Yours is the thrill and the laurel:Ours is the smart and shame.

Reach us a hand in passing,

Comrades—and own the name!

Yours is the thrill and the laurel:

Ours is the smart and shame.

Though we were nothing skillful,Pity us not nor scorn!Send us a hail as hearty—"Stoutly and bravely borne!"

Though we were nothing skillful,

Pity us not nor scorn!

Send us a hail as hearty—

"Stoutly and bravely borne!"

Others may scorn or pity;You who are soldiers know.Where was the joy of your battleSave in the grip with the foe?

Others may scorn or pity;

You who are soldiers know.

Where was the joy of your battle

Save in the grip with the foe?

Did we not stand to the conflict?Did we not fairly fall?Is it your crowns ye care for?Nay, to have fought is all.

Did we not stand to the conflict?

Did we not fairly fall?

Is it your crowns ye care for?

Nay, to have fought is all.

Humbled and sore we watch you,Cheerful and bruised and lamed.Take the applause of the conquered—Conquered and unashamed!

Humbled and sore we watch you,

Cheerful and bruised and lamed.

Take the applause of the conquered—

Conquered and unashamed!

—Alice Van Vliet.

———

He is brave whose tongue is silentOf the trophies of his word.He is great whose quiet bearingMarks his greatness well assured.—Edwin Arnold.

He is brave whose tongue is silentOf the trophies of his word.He is great whose quiet bearingMarks his greatness well assured.

He is brave whose tongue is silent

Of the trophies of his word.

He is great whose quiet bearing

Marks his greatness well assured.

—Edwin Arnold.

———

Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and shield,Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field;And the band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air,With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair.Like foam-flakes left on the drifting sandIn the track of a falling tide,On the ground where their cause has failed they stand,The last of the losing side.Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth,Passion of faith and honor, fire of love and truth;And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have not prevailed,The keenest blades are broken, and the strongest arms have failed.But souls that know not the breath of shame,And tongues that have never lied,And the truest hearts, and the fairest fame,Are here—on the losing side.The conqueror's crown of glory is set with many a gem,But I join not in their triumph—there are plenty to shout forthem;The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain the day,And the world's best smiles are given to the victors in the fray.But dearer to me is the darkened plain,Where the noblest dreams have died,Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slainIn the ranks of the losing side.—Arthur E. J. Legge.

Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and shield,

Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field;

And the band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air,

With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair.

Like foam-flakes left on the drifting sand

In the track of a falling tide,

On the ground where their cause has failed they stand,

The last of the losing side.

Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth,Passion of faith and honor, fire of love and truth;And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have not prevailed,The keenest blades are broken, and the strongest arms have failed.But souls that know not the breath of shame,And tongues that have never lied,And the truest hearts, and the fairest fame,Are here—on the losing side.

Wisdom of age is vanquished, and generous hopes of youth,

Passion of faith and honor, fire of love and truth;

And the plans that seemed the fairest in the fight have not prevailed,

The keenest blades are broken, and the strongest arms have failed.

But souls that know not the breath of shame,

And tongues that have never lied,

And the truest hearts, and the fairest fame,

Are here—on the losing side.

The conqueror's crown of glory is set with many a gem,But I join not in their triumph—there are plenty to shout forthem;The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain the day,And the world's best smiles are given to the victors in the fray.But dearer to me is the darkened plain,Where the noblest dreams have died,Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slainIn the ranks of the losing side.

The conqueror's crown of glory is set with many a gem,

But I join not in their triumph—there are plenty to shout forthem;

The cause is the most applauded whose warriors gain the day,

And the world's best smiles are given to the victors in the fray.

But dearer to me is the darkened plain,

Where the noblest dreams have died,

Where hopes have been shattered and heroes slain

In the ranks of the losing side.

—Arthur E. J. Legge.

———

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of life,The hymn of the wounded and beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaimOf nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary and broken in heart,Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of dayWith the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.While the voice of the world shouts its chorus—its pean for those who have won;While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sunGlad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feetThronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and thereChant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win,Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be, to die."Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say,Are they those whom the world called the victors? who won the success of a day?The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?—William M. Story.

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of life,

The hymn of the wounded and beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife;

Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim

Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,

But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary and broken in heart,

Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;

Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,

From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day

With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,

With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus—its pean for those who have won;While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sunGlad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feetThronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and thereChant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win,Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be, to die."

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus—its pean for those who have won;

While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun

Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet

Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,

In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there

Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,

Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win,

Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;

Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;

Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be, to die."

Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say,Are they those whom the world called the victors? who won the success of a day?The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?

Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say,

Are they those whom the world called the victors? who won the success of a day?

The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,

Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?

—William M. Story.

———

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