INDEX TO AUTHORS

You think them "out of reach," your dead?Nay, by my own dead, I denyYour "out of reach."—Be comforted;'Tis not so far to die.O by their dear remembered smiles,And outheld hands and welcoming speech,They wait for us, thousands of milesThis side of "out of reach."—James Whitcomb Riley.

You think them "out of reach," your dead?Nay, by my own dead, I denyYour "out of reach."—Be comforted;'Tis not so far to die.

You think them "out of reach," your dead?

Nay, by my own dead, I deny

Your "out of reach."—Be comforted;

'Tis not so far to die.

O by their dear remembered smiles,And outheld hands and welcoming speech,They wait for us, thousands of milesThis side of "out of reach."

O by their dear remembered smiles,

And outheld hands and welcoming speech,

They wait for us, thousands of miles

This side of "out of reach."

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

I lift my head and walk my waysBefore the world without a tear,And bravely unto those I meetI smile a message of good cheer;I give my lips to laugh and song,And somehow get me through each day;But, oh, the tremble in my heartSince she has gone away!Her feet had known the stinging thorns,Her eyes the blistering tears;Bent were her shoulders with the weightAnd sorrow of the years;The lines were deep upon her brow,Her hair was thin and gray;And, oh, the tremble in my heartSince she has gone away!I am not sorry; I am glad;I would not have her here again;God gave her strength life's bitter cupUnto the bitterest dreg to drain;I will not have less strength than she,I proudly tread my stony way;But, oh, the tremble in my heartSince she has gone away!

I lift my head and walk my ways

Before the world without a tear,

And bravely unto those I meet

I smile a message of good cheer;

I give my lips to laugh and song,

And somehow get me through each day;

But, oh, the tremble in my heart

Since she has gone away!

Her feet had known the stinging thorns,Her eyes the blistering tears;Bent were her shoulders with the weightAnd sorrow of the years;The lines were deep upon her brow,Her hair was thin and gray;And, oh, the tremble in my heartSince she has gone away!

Her feet had known the stinging thorns,

Her eyes the blistering tears;

Bent were her shoulders with the weight

And sorrow of the years;

The lines were deep upon her brow,

Her hair was thin and gray;

And, oh, the tremble in my heart

Since she has gone away!

I am not sorry; I am glad;I would not have her here again;God gave her strength life's bitter cupUnto the bitterest dreg to drain;I will not have less strength than she,I proudly tread my stony way;But, oh, the tremble in my heartSince she has gone away!

I am not sorry; I am glad;

I would not have her here again;

God gave her strength life's bitter cup

Unto the bitterest dreg to drain;

I will not have less strength than she,

I proudly tread my stony way;

But, oh, the tremble in my heart

Since she has gone away!

———

I lay me down to sleepWith little thought or careWhether my waking findMe here or there.A bowing, burdened head,That only asks to rest,Unquestioning, uponA loving breast.My good right hand forgetsIts cunning now;To march the weary marchI know not how.I am not eager, bold,Nor strong—all that is past;I'm ready not to doAt last, at last.My half-day's work is done,And this is all my part;I give a patient GodMy patient heart,And grasp his banner still,Though all its blue be dim;These stripes, no less than stars,Lead after Him.—M. W. Howland.

I lay me down to sleepWith little thought or careWhether my waking findMe here or there.

I lay me down to sleep

With little thought or care

Whether my waking find

Me here or there.

A bowing, burdened head,That only asks to rest,Unquestioning, uponA loving breast.

A bowing, burdened head,

That only asks to rest,

Unquestioning, upon

A loving breast.

My good right hand forgetsIts cunning now;To march the weary marchI know not how.

My good right hand forgets

Its cunning now;

To march the weary march

I know not how.

I am not eager, bold,Nor strong—all that is past;I'm ready not to doAt last, at last.

I am not eager, bold,

Nor strong—all that is past;

I'm ready not to do

At last, at last.

My half-day's work is done,And this is all my part;I give a patient GodMy patient heart,

My half-day's work is done,

And this is all my part;

I give a patient God

My patient heart,

And grasp his banner still,Though all its blue be dim;These stripes, no less than stars,Lead after Him.

And grasp his banner still,

Though all its blue be dim;

These stripes, no less than stars,

Lead after Him.

—M. W. Howland.

———

Father of mercies, thy children have wanderedFar from thy bosom, their home;Most of their portion of goods they have squandered;Farther and farther they roam.We are thy children, and we have departedTo the lone country afar,We would arise, we come back broken-hearted;Take us back just as we are.Not for the ring or the robe we entreat thee,Nor for high place at the feast;Only to see thee, to touch thee, to greet thee,Ranked with the last and the least.But for thy mercy we dare not accost thee,But for thy Son who has comeSeeking his brothers who left thee and lost thee,Seeking to gather them home.Father of mercies, thy holiness awes us;Yet thou dost wait to receive!Jesus, the light of thy countenance charms us,Father of him, we believe.Back in the home of thy heart, may we laborOthers to bring from the wild,Counting each creature that needs us our neighbor,Claiming each soul as thy child.—Robert F. Horton.

Father of mercies, thy children have wanderedFar from thy bosom, their home;Most of their portion of goods they have squandered;Farther and farther they roam.

Father of mercies, thy children have wandered

Far from thy bosom, their home;

Most of their portion of goods they have squandered;

Farther and farther they roam.

We are thy children, and we have departedTo the lone country afar,We would arise, we come back broken-hearted;Take us back just as we are.

We are thy children, and we have departed

To the lone country afar,

We would arise, we come back broken-hearted;

Take us back just as we are.

Not for the ring or the robe we entreat thee,Nor for high place at the feast;Only to see thee, to touch thee, to greet thee,Ranked with the last and the least.

Not for the ring or the robe we entreat thee,

Nor for high place at the feast;

Only to see thee, to touch thee, to greet thee,

Ranked with the last and the least.

But for thy mercy we dare not accost thee,But for thy Son who has comeSeeking his brothers who left thee and lost thee,Seeking to gather them home.

But for thy mercy we dare not accost thee,

But for thy Son who has come

Seeking his brothers who left thee and lost thee,

Seeking to gather them home.

Father of mercies, thy holiness awes us;Yet thou dost wait to receive!Jesus, the light of thy countenance charms us,Father of him, we believe.

Father of mercies, thy holiness awes us;

Yet thou dost wait to receive!

Jesus, the light of thy countenance charms us,

Father of him, we believe.

Back in the home of thy heart, may we laborOthers to bring from the wild,Counting each creature that needs us our neighbor,Claiming each soul as thy child.

Back in the home of thy heart, may we labor

Others to bring from the wild,

Counting each creature that needs us our neighbor,

Claiming each soul as thy child.

—Robert F. Horton.

———

How shall we tell an angelFrom another guest?How, from common worldly herd,One of the blest?Hint of suppressed halo,Rustle of hidden wings,Wafture of heavenly frankincense—Which of these things?The old Sphinx smiles so subtly:"I give no golden rule—Yet would I warn thee, World: treat wellWhom thou call'st fool."—Gertrude Hall.

How shall we tell an angelFrom another guest?How, from common worldly herd,One of the blest?

How shall we tell an angel

From another guest?

How, from common worldly herd,

One of the blest?

Hint of suppressed halo,Rustle of hidden wings,Wafture of heavenly frankincense—Which of these things?

Hint of suppressed halo,

Rustle of hidden wings,

Wafture of heavenly frankincense—

Which of these things?

The old Sphinx smiles so subtly:"I give no golden rule—Yet would I warn thee, World: treat wellWhom thou call'st fool."

The old Sphinx smiles so subtly:

"I give no golden rule—

Yet would I warn thee, World: treat well

Whom thou call'st fool."

—Gertrude Hall.

———

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,My staff of faith to walk upon,My scrip of joy, immortal diet,My bottle of salvation,My gown of glory, hope's true gage;And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.Blood must be my body's balmer;No other balm will there be given;Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,Traveleth toward the land of heaven;Over the silver mountains,Where spring the nectar fountains,There will I kissThe bowl of bliss,And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken hill.My soul will be a-dry before;But after, it will thirst no more.Then by that happy, blissful day,More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,That have cast off their rags of clay,And walk appareled fresh like me.I'll take them firstTo quench their thirstAnd taste of nectar suckets,At those clear wellsWhere sweetness dwells,Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.—Sir Walter Raleigh.

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,My staff of faith to walk upon,My scrip of joy, immortal diet,My bottle of salvation,My gown of glory, hope's true gage;And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet,

My staff of faith to walk upon,

My scrip of joy, immortal diet,

My bottle of salvation,

My gown of glory, hope's true gage;

And thus I'll take my pilgrimage.

Blood must be my body's balmer;No other balm will there be given;Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,Traveleth toward the land of heaven;Over the silver mountains,Where spring the nectar fountains,There will I kissThe bowl of bliss,And drink mine everlasting fillUpon every milken hill.My soul will be a-dry before;But after, it will thirst no more.

Blood must be my body's balmer;

No other balm will there be given;

Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer,

Traveleth toward the land of heaven;

Over the silver mountains,

Where spring the nectar fountains,

There will I kiss

The bowl of bliss,

And drink mine everlasting fill

Upon every milken hill.

My soul will be a-dry before;

But after, it will thirst no more.

Then by that happy, blissful day,More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,That have cast off their rags of clay,And walk appareled fresh like me.I'll take them firstTo quench their thirstAnd taste of nectar suckets,At those clear wellsWhere sweetness dwells,Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

Then by that happy, blissful day,

More peaceful pilgrims I shall see,

That have cast off their rags of clay,

And walk appareled fresh like me.

I'll take them first

To quench their thirst

And taste of nectar suckets,

At those clear wells

Where sweetness dwells,

Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets.

—Sir Walter Raleigh.

———

O Sentinel at the loose-swung door of my impetuous lips,Guard close to-day! Make sure no word unjust or cruel slipsIn anger forth, by folly spurred or armed with envy's whips;Keep clear the way to-day.And Watchman on the cliff-scarred heights that lead from heart to mind,When wolf-thoughts clothed in guile's soft fleece creep up, O be not blind!But may they pass whose foreheads bear the glowing seal-word, "kind";Bid them Godspeed, I pray.And Warden of my soul's stained house, where love and hate are born,O make it clean, if swept must be with pain's rough broom of thorn!And quiet impose, so straining ears with world-din racked and torn,May catch what God doth say.

O Sentinel at the loose-swung door of my impetuous lips,

Guard close to-day! Make sure no word unjust or cruel slips

In anger forth, by folly spurred or armed with envy's whips;

Keep clear the way to-day.

And Watchman on the cliff-scarred heights that lead from heart to mind,When wolf-thoughts clothed in guile's soft fleece creep up, O be not blind!But may they pass whose foreheads bear the glowing seal-word, "kind";Bid them Godspeed, I pray.

And Watchman on the cliff-scarred heights that lead from heart to mind,

When wolf-thoughts clothed in guile's soft fleece creep up, O be not blind!

But may they pass whose foreheads bear the glowing seal-word, "kind";

Bid them Godspeed, I pray.

And Warden of my soul's stained house, where love and hate are born,O make it clean, if swept must be with pain's rough broom of thorn!And quiet impose, so straining ears with world-din racked and torn,May catch what God doth say.

And Warden of my soul's stained house, where love and hate are born,

O make it clean, if swept must be with pain's rough broom of thorn!

And quiet impose, so straining ears with world-din racked and torn,

May catch what God doth say.

———

A good man never dies—In worthy deed and prayer,And helpful hands, and honest eyes,If smiles or tears be there;Who lives for you and me—Lives for the world he triesTo help—he lives eternally.A good man never dies.Who lives to bravely takeHis share of toil and stress,And, for his weaker fellows' sakeMakes every burden less—He may, at last, seem worn—Lie fallen—hands and eyesFolded—yet, though we mourn and mourn,A good man never dies.—James Whitcomb Riley.

A good man never dies—

In worthy deed and prayer,

And helpful hands, and honest eyes,

If smiles or tears be there;

Who lives for you and me—

Lives for the world he tries

To help—he lives eternally.

A good man never dies.

Who lives to bravely takeHis share of toil and stress,And, for his weaker fellows' sakeMakes every burden less—He may, at last, seem worn—Lie fallen—hands and eyesFolded—yet, though we mourn and mourn,A good man never dies.

Who lives to bravely take

His share of toil and stress,

And, for his weaker fellows' sake

Makes every burden less—

He may, at last, seem worn—

Lie fallen—hands and eyes

Folded—yet, though we mourn and mourn,

A good man never dies.

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

A fire-mist and a planet,A crystal and a cell,A jellyfish and a saurian,And caves where the cavemen dwell;Then a sense of law and beauty,And a face turned from the clod—Some call it EvolutionAnd others call it God.A haze on the far horizon,The infinite, tender sky,The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,And the wild geese sailing high—And all over upland and lowlandThe charm of the golden rod—Some of us call it Autumn,And others call it God.Like tides on a crescent sea beach,When the moon is new and thin,Into our hearts high yearningsCome welling and surging in—Come from the mystic ocean,Whose rim no foot has trod—Some of us call it Longing,And others call it God.A picket frozen on duty—A mother starved for her brood—Socrates drinking the hemlock,And Jesus on the rood;And millions who, humble and nameless,The straight, hard pathway trod—Some call it Consecration,And others call it God.—William Herbert Carruth.

A fire-mist and a planet,

A crystal and a cell,

A jellyfish and a saurian,

And caves where the cavemen dwell;

Then a sense of law and beauty,

And a face turned from the clod—

Some call it Evolution

And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,The infinite, tender sky,The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,And the wild geese sailing high—And all over upland and lowlandThe charm of the golden rod—Some of us call it Autumn,And others call it God.

A haze on the far horizon,

The infinite, tender sky,

The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields,

And the wild geese sailing high—

And all over upland and lowland

The charm of the golden rod—

Some of us call it Autumn,

And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea beach,When the moon is new and thin,Into our hearts high yearningsCome welling and surging in—Come from the mystic ocean,Whose rim no foot has trod—Some of us call it Longing,And others call it God.

Like tides on a crescent sea beach,

When the moon is new and thin,

Into our hearts high yearnings

Come welling and surging in—

Come from the mystic ocean,

Whose rim no foot has trod—

Some of us call it Longing,

And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty—A mother starved for her brood—Socrates drinking the hemlock,And Jesus on the rood;And millions who, humble and nameless,The straight, hard pathway trod—Some call it Consecration,And others call it God.

A picket frozen on duty—

A mother starved for her brood—

Socrates drinking the hemlock,

And Jesus on the rood;

And millions who, humble and nameless,

The straight, hard pathway trod—

Some call it Consecration,

And others call it God.

—William Herbert Carruth.

———

Do you go to my school?Yes, you go to my school,And we've learned the big lesson—Be strong!And to front the loud noiseWith a spirit of poise,And drown down the noise with a song.We have spelled the first line in the Primer of Fate;We have spelled it, and dare not to shirk—For its first and its greatest commandment to menIs "Work, and rejoice in your work."Who is learned in this Primer will not be a fool—You are one of my classmates. You go to my school.You belong to my club?Yes, you're one of my club,And this is our program and plan:To each do his partTo look into the heartAnd get at the good that's in man.Detectives of virtue and spies of the goodAnd sleuth-hounds of righteousness we.Look out there, my brother! we're hot on your trail,We'll find out how good you can be.We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub;We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club.You belong to my church?Yes, you go to my church—Our names on the same old church roll—The tide-waves of GodWe believe are abroadAnd flow into the creeks of each soul.And the vessel we sail on is strong as the seaThat buffets and blows it about;For the sea is God's sea as the ship is God's ship,So we know not the meaning of doubt;And we know howsoever the vessel may lurchWe've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church.—Sam Walter Foss.

Do you go to my school?

Yes, you go to my school,

And we've learned the big lesson—Be strong!

And to front the loud noise

With a spirit of poise,

And drown down the noise with a song.

We have spelled the first line in the Primer of Fate;

We have spelled it, and dare not to shirk—

For its first and its greatest commandment to men

Is "Work, and rejoice in your work."

Who is learned in this Primer will not be a fool—

You are one of my classmates. You go to my school.

You belong to my club?Yes, you're one of my club,And this is our program and plan:To each do his partTo look into the heartAnd get at the good that's in man.Detectives of virtue and spies of the goodAnd sleuth-hounds of righteousness we.Look out there, my brother! we're hot on your trail,We'll find out how good you can be.We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub;We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club.

You belong to my club?

Yes, you're one of my club,

And this is our program and plan:

To each do his part

To look into the heart

And get at the good that's in man.

Detectives of virtue and spies of the good

And sleuth-hounds of righteousness we.

Look out there, my brother! we're hot on your trail,

We'll find out how good you can be.

We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub;

We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club.

You belong to my church?Yes, you go to my church—Our names on the same old church roll—The tide-waves of GodWe believe are abroadAnd flow into the creeks of each soul.And the vessel we sail on is strong as the seaThat buffets and blows it about;For the sea is God's sea as the ship is God's ship,So we know not the meaning of doubt;And we know howsoever the vessel may lurchWe've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church.

You belong to my church?

Yes, you go to my church—

Our names on the same old church roll—

The tide-waves of God

We believe are abroad

And flow into the creeks of each soul.

And the vessel we sail on is strong as the sea

That buffets and blows it about;

For the sea is God's sea as the ship is God's ship,

So we know not the meaning of doubt;

And we know howsoever the vessel may lurch

We've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church.

—Sam Walter Foss.

———

Never elated while one man's oppressed;Never dejected while another's blessed.—Alexander Pope.

Never elated while one man's oppressed;Never dejected while another's blessed.

Never elated while one man's oppressed;

Never dejected while another's blessed.

—Alexander Pope.

———

There's a craze among us mortals that is cruel hard to name;Wheresoe'er you find a human you will find the case the same;You may seek among the worst of men or seek among the best,And you'll find that every person is precisely like the rest:Each believes his real calling is along some other lineThan the one at which he's working—take, for instance, yours and mine.From the meanest "me-too" creature to the leader of the mob,There's a universal craving for "the other fellow's job."There are millions of positions in the busy world to-day,Each a drudge to him who holds it, but to him who doesn't, play;Everyfarmer's broken-hearted that in youth he missed his call,While that same unhappy farmer is the envy of us all.Any task you care to mention seems a vastly better lotThan the one especial something which you happen to have got.There's but one sure way to smother Envy's heartache and her sob:Keep too busy at your own to want "the other fellow's job."—Strickland W. Gilliland.

There's a craze among us mortals that is cruel hard to name;

Wheresoe'er you find a human you will find the case the same;

You may seek among the worst of men or seek among the best,

And you'll find that every person is precisely like the rest:

Each believes his real calling is along some other line

Than the one at which he's working—take, for instance, yours and mine.

From the meanest "me-too" creature to the leader of the mob,

There's a universal craving for "the other fellow's job."

There are millions of positions in the busy world to-day,Each a drudge to him who holds it, but to him who doesn't, play;Everyfarmer's broken-hearted that in youth he missed his call,While that same unhappy farmer is the envy of us all.Any task you care to mention seems a vastly better lotThan the one especial something which you happen to have got.There's but one sure way to smother Envy's heartache and her sob:Keep too busy at your own to want "the other fellow's job."

There are millions of positions in the busy world to-day,

Each a drudge to him who holds it, but to him who doesn't, play;

Everyfarmer's broken-hearted that in youth he missed his call,

While that same unhappy farmer is the envy of us all.

Any task you care to mention seems a vastly better lot

Than the one especial something which you happen to have got.

There's but one sure way to smother Envy's heartache and her sob:

Keep too busy at your own to want "the other fellow's job."

—Strickland W. Gilliland.

———

"If I have eaten my morsel alone,"The patriarch spoke in scorn.What would he think of the Church were he shownHeathendom—huge, forlorn,Godless, Christless, with soul unfed,While the Church's ailment is fullness of bread,Eating her morsel alone?"Freely as ye have received, so give,"He bade who hath given us all.How shall the soul in us longer liveDeaf to their starving call,For whom the blood of the Lord was shed,And his body broken to give them bread,If we eat our morsel alone?—Archbishop Alexander.

"If I have eaten my morsel alone,"

The patriarch spoke in scorn.

What would he think of the Church were he shown

Heathendom—huge, forlorn,

Godless, Christless, with soul unfed,

While the Church's ailment is fullness of bread,

Eating her morsel alone?

"Freely as ye have received, so give,"He bade who hath given us all.How shall the soul in us longer liveDeaf to their starving call,For whom the blood of the Lord was shed,And his body broken to give them bread,If we eat our morsel alone?

"Freely as ye have received, so give,"

He bade who hath given us all.

How shall the soul in us longer live

Deaf to their starving call,

For whom the blood of the Lord was shed,

And his body broken to give them bread,

If we eat our morsel alone?

—Archbishop Alexander.

———

What makes a man great? Is it houses and lands?Is it argosies dropping their wealth at his feet?Is it multitudes shouting his name in the street?Is it power of brain? Is it skill of hand?Is it writing a book? Is it guiding the State?Nay, nay, none of these can make a man great.The crystal burns cold with its beautiful fire,And is what it is; it can never be more;The acorn, with something wrapped warm at the core,In quietness says, "To the oak I aspire."That something in seed and in tree is the same—What makes a man great is his greatness of aim.What is greatness of aim? Your purpose to trimFor bringing the world to obey your behest?O no, it is seeking God's perfect and best,Making something the same both in you and in him.Love what he loves, and, child of the sod,Already you share in the greatness of God.—Samuel V. Cole.

What makes a man great? Is it houses and lands?

Is it argosies dropping their wealth at his feet?

Is it multitudes shouting his name in the street?

Is it power of brain? Is it skill of hand?

Is it writing a book? Is it guiding the State?

Nay, nay, none of these can make a man great.

The crystal burns cold with its beautiful fire,And is what it is; it can never be more;The acorn, with something wrapped warm at the core,In quietness says, "To the oak I aspire."That something in seed and in tree is the same—What makes a man great is his greatness of aim.

The crystal burns cold with its beautiful fire,

And is what it is; it can never be more;

The acorn, with something wrapped warm at the core,

In quietness says, "To the oak I aspire."

That something in seed and in tree is the same—

What makes a man great is his greatness of aim.

What is greatness of aim? Your purpose to trimFor bringing the world to obey your behest?O no, it is seeking God's perfect and best,Making something the same both in you and in him.Love what he loves, and, child of the sod,Already you share in the greatness of God.

What is greatness of aim? Your purpose to trim

For bringing the world to obey your behest?

O no, it is seeking God's perfect and best,

Making something the same both in you and in him.

Love what he loves, and, child of the sod,

Already you share in the greatness of God.

—Samuel V. Cole.

———

When the other firms show dizzinessHere's a house that does not share it.Wouldn't you like to join the business?Join the firm of Grin and Barrett?Give your strength that does not murmur,And your nerve that does not falter,And you've joined a house that's firmerThan the old rock of Gibraltar.They have won a good prosperity;Why not join the firm and share it?Step, young fellow, with celerity;Join the firm of Grin and Barrett.Grin and Barrett,Who can scare it?Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett?—Sam Walter Foss.

When the other firms show dizziness

Here's a house that does not share it.

Wouldn't you like to join the business?

Join the firm of Grin and Barrett?

Give your strength that does not murmur,

And your nerve that does not falter,

And you've joined a house that's firmer

Than the old rock of Gibraltar.

They have won a good prosperity;

Why not join the firm and share it?

Step, young fellow, with celerity;

Join the firm of Grin and Barrett.

Grin and Barrett,

Who can scare it?

Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett?

—Sam Walter Foss.

———

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:England hath need of thee: she is a fenOf stagnant waters: altars, sword, and pen,Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,Have forfeited their ancient English dowerOf inward happiness. We are selfish men.O! raise us up, return to us again;And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,So didst thou travel on life's common way,In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heartThe lowliest duties on herself did lay.—William Wordsworth.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour:

England hath need of thee: she is a fen

Of stagnant waters: altars, sword, and pen,

Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower,

Have forfeited their ancient English dower

Of inward happiness. We are selfish men.

O! raise us up, return to us again;

And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power.

Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart:

Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea:

Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free,

So didst thou travel on life's common way,

In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart

The lowliest duties on herself did lay.

—William Wordsworth.

———

For radiant health I praise not when I pray,Nor for routine of toil well-pleasing every way,Though these gifts, Lord, more priceless grow each day.Not for congenial comrades, garnered storeOf worldly wealth, nor vision that sees o'erSuch sordid mass, mind's plumèd eagles soar.Not even, Lord, for love that eases stressOf storm, contention, hope's unconquerableness,Nor faith's abiding peace, nor works that bless.But this, dear Lord, stir inner depths divine,That day by day, though slowly! line on lineMy will begins—begins—to merge in thine.—Charles L. Story.

For radiant health I praise not when I pray,Nor for routine of toil well-pleasing every way,Though these gifts, Lord, more priceless grow each day.

For radiant health I praise not when I pray,

Nor for routine of toil well-pleasing every way,

Though these gifts, Lord, more priceless grow each day.

Not for congenial comrades, garnered storeOf worldly wealth, nor vision that sees o'erSuch sordid mass, mind's plumèd eagles soar.

Not for congenial comrades, garnered store

Of worldly wealth, nor vision that sees o'er

Such sordid mass, mind's plumèd eagles soar.

Not even, Lord, for love that eases stressOf storm, contention, hope's unconquerableness,Nor faith's abiding peace, nor works that bless.

Not even, Lord, for love that eases stress

Of storm, contention, hope's unconquerableness,

Nor faith's abiding peace, nor works that bless.

But this, dear Lord, stir inner depths divine,That day by day, though slowly! line on lineMy will begins—begins—to merge in thine.

But this, dear Lord, stir inner depths divine,

That day by day, though slowly! line on line

My will begins—begins—to merge in thine.

—Charles L. Story.

———

O Thou who lovest not aloneThe swift success, the instant goal,But hast a lenient eye to markThe failures of the inconstant soul,Consider not my little worth—The mean achievement, scamped in act—The high resolve and low result,The dream that durst not face the fact.But count the reach of my desire—Let this be something in thy sight;I have not, in the slothful dark,Forgot the vision and the height.Neither my body nor my soulTo earth's low ease will yield consent.I praise thee for the will to strive;I bless thy goad and discontent.—Charles G. D. Roberts.

O Thou who lovest not aloneThe swift success, the instant goal,But hast a lenient eye to markThe failures of the inconstant soul,

O Thou who lovest not alone

The swift success, the instant goal,

But hast a lenient eye to mark

The failures of the inconstant soul,

Consider not my little worth—The mean achievement, scamped in act—The high resolve and low result,The dream that durst not face the fact.

Consider not my little worth—

The mean achievement, scamped in act—

The high resolve and low result,

The dream that durst not face the fact.

But count the reach of my desire—Let this be something in thy sight;I have not, in the slothful dark,Forgot the vision and the height.

But count the reach of my desire—

Let this be something in thy sight;

I have not, in the slothful dark,

Forgot the vision and the height.

Neither my body nor my soulTo earth's low ease will yield consent.I praise thee for the will to strive;I bless thy goad and discontent.

Neither my body nor my soul

To earth's low ease will yield consent.

I praise thee for the will to strive;

I bless thy goad and discontent.

—Charles G. D. Roberts.

———

When over the fair fame of friend or foeThe shadow of disgrace shall fall, insteadOf words of blame or proof of thus and so,Let something good be said!Forget not that no fellow-being yetMay fall so low but love may lift his head;Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet,If something good be said.No generous heart may vainly turn asideIn ways of sympathy; no soul so deadBut may awaken, strong and glorified,If something good be said.And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown,And by the cross on which the Saviour bled,And by your own soul's hope of fair renown,Let something good be said!—James Whitcomb Riley.

When over the fair fame of friend or foeThe shadow of disgrace shall fall, insteadOf words of blame or proof of thus and so,Let something good be said!

When over the fair fame of friend or foe

The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead

Of words of blame or proof of thus and so,

Let something good be said!

Forget not that no fellow-being yetMay fall so low but love may lift his head;Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet,If something good be said.

Forget not that no fellow-being yet

May fall so low but love may lift his head;

Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet,

If something good be said.

No generous heart may vainly turn asideIn ways of sympathy; no soul so deadBut may awaken, strong and glorified,If something good be said.

No generous heart may vainly turn aside

In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead

But may awaken, strong and glorified,

If something good be said.

And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown,And by the cross on which the Saviour bled,And by your own soul's hope of fair renown,Let something good be said!

And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown,

And by the cross on which the Saviour bled,

And by your own soul's hope of fair renown,

Let something good be said!

—James Whitcomb Riley.

———

Why do we cling to the skirts of sorrow?Why do we cloud with care the brow?Why do we wait for a glad to-morrow—Why not gladden the precious Now?Eden is yours! Would you dwell within it?Change men's grief to a gracious smile,And thus have heaven here this minuteAnd not far-off in the afterwhile.Life, at most, is a fleeting bubble,Gone with the puff of an angel's breath.Why should the dim hereafter troubleSouls this side of the gates of death?The crown is yours! Would you care to win it?Plant a song in the hearts that sigh,And thus have heaven here this minuteAnd not far-off in the by-and-by.Find the soul's high place of beauty,Not in a man-made book of creeds,But where desire ennobles dutyAnd life is full of your kindly deeds.The bliss is yours! Would you fain begin it?Pave with love each golden mile,And thus have heaven here this minuteAnd not far-off in the afterwhile.—Nixon Waterman.

Why do we cling to the skirts of sorrow?

Why do we cloud with care the brow?

Why do we wait for a glad to-morrow—

Why not gladden the precious Now?

Eden is yours! Would you dwell within it?

Change men's grief to a gracious smile,

And thus have heaven here this minute

And not far-off in the afterwhile.

Life, at most, is a fleeting bubble,Gone with the puff of an angel's breath.Why should the dim hereafter troubleSouls this side of the gates of death?The crown is yours! Would you care to win it?Plant a song in the hearts that sigh,And thus have heaven here this minuteAnd not far-off in the by-and-by.

Life, at most, is a fleeting bubble,

Gone with the puff of an angel's breath.

Why should the dim hereafter trouble

Souls this side of the gates of death?

The crown is yours! Would you care to win it?

Plant a song in the hearts that sigh,

And thus have heaven here this minute

And not far-off in the by-and-by.

Find the soul's high place of beauty,Not in a man-made book of creeds,But where desire ennobles dutyAnd life is full of your kindly deeds.The bliss is yours! Would you fain begin it?Pave with love each golden mile,And thus have heaven here this minuteAnd not far-off in the afterwhile.

Find the soul's high place of beauty,

Not in a man-made book of creeds,

But where desire ennobles duty

And life is full of your kindly deeds.

The bliss is yours! Would you fain begin it?

Pave with love each golden mile,

And thus have heaven here this minute

And not far-off in the afterwhile.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;Corruption wins not more than honesty.Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,Thy God's, and truth's.—William Shakespeare.

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee;

Corruption wins not more than honesty.

Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace,

To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not:

Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's,

Thy God's, and truth's.

—William Shakespeare.

———

Sweet are the uses of adversity;Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;And this our life, exempt from public haunt,Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,Sermons in stones, and good in everything.—William Shakespeare.

Sweet are the uses of adversity;

Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous,

Wears yet a precious jewel in his head;

And this our life, exempt from public haunt,

Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks,

Sermons in stones, and good in everything.

—William Shakespeare.

———

But let my due feet never failTo walk the studious cloister's pale,And love the high embowèd roofWith antique pillars massy proof,And storied windows richly dight,Casting a dim religious light.There let the pealing organ blow,To the full-voiced choir below,In service high, and anthems clear,As may with sweetness, through mine ear,Dissolve me into ecstasies,And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.—John Milton.

But let my due feet never fail

To walk the studious cloister's pale,

And love the high embowèd roof

With antique pillars massy proof,

And storied windows richly dight,

Casting a dim religious light.

There let the pealing organ blow,

To the full-voiced choir below,

In service high, and anthems clear,

As may with sweetness, through mine ear,

Dissolve me into ecstasies,

And bring all Heaven before mine eyes.

—John Milton.

———

Give us men!Strong and stalwart ones:Men whom highest hope inspires,Men whom purest honor fires,Men who trample Self beneath them,Men who make their country wreathe themAs her noble sons,Worthy of their sires,Men who never shame their mothers,Men who never fail their brothers;True, however false are others:Give us Men—I say again,Give us Men!—Bishop of Exeter.

Give us men!

Strong and stalwart ones:

Men whom highest hope inspires,

Men whom purest honor fires,

Men who trample Self beneath them,

Men who make their country wreathe them

As her noble sons,

Worthy of their sires,

Men who never shame their mothers,

Men who never fail their brothers;

True, however false are others:

Give us Men—I say again,

Give us Men!

—Bishop of Exeter.

———

I will not doubt though all my ships at seaCome drifting home with broken masts and sails,I will believe the Hand which never fails,From seeming evil worketh good for me;And though I weep because those sails are tattered,Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered,"I trust in Thee."

I will not doubt though all my ships at sea

Come drifting home with broken masts and sails,

I will believe the Hand which never fails,

From seeming evil worketh good for me;

And though I weep because those sails are tattered,

Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered,

"I trust in Thee."

———

The wounds I might have healed,The human sorrow and smart!And yet it never was in my soulTo play so ill a part.But evil is wrought by want of thoughtAs well as want of heart.—Thomas Hood.

The wounds I might have healed,The human sorrow and smart!And yet it never was in my soulTo play so ill a part.But evil is wrought by want of thoughtAs well as want of heart.

The wounds I might have healed,

The human sorrow and smart!

And yet it never was in my soul

To play so ill a part.

But evil is wrought by want of thought

As well as want of heart.

—Thomas Hood.

———

Feel glum? Keep mum.Don't grumble. Be humble.Trials cling? Just sing.Can't sing? Just cling.Don't fear—God's near!Money goes—He knows.Honor left—Not bereft.Don't rust—Work! Trust!—Ernest Bourner Allen.

Feel glum? Keep mum.Don't grumble. Be humble.Trials cling? Just sing.Can't sing? Just cling.Don't fear—God's near!Money goes—He knows.Honor left—Not bereft.Don't rust—Work! Trust!

Feel glum? Keep mum.

Don't grumble. Be humble.

Trials cling? Just sing.

Can't sing? Just cling.

Don't fear—God's near!

Money goes—He knows.

Honor left—Not bereft.

Don't rust—Work! Trust!

—Ernest Bourner Allen.

———

A rose to the living is moreThan sumptuous wreaths to the dead;In filling love's infinite store,A rose to the living is more,If graciously given beforeThe hungering spirit is fled—A rose to the living is moreThan sumptuous wreaths to the dead.—Nixon Waterman.

A rose to the living is more

Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead;

In filling love's infinite store,

A rose to the living is more,

If graciously given before

The hungering spirit is fled—

A rose to the living is more

Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

Canst thou see no beauty nigh?Cure thy dull, distempered eye.Canst thou no sweet music hear?Tune thy sad, discordant ear.Earth has beauty everywhereIf the eye that sees is fair.Earth has music to delightIf the ear is tuned aright.—Nixon Waterman.

Canst thou see no beauty nigh?

Cure thy dull, distempered eye.

Canst thou no sweet music hear?

Tune thy sad, discordant ear.

Earth has beauty everywhere

If the eye that sees is fair.

Earth has music to delight

If the ear is tuned aright.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

Anew we pledge ourselves to Thee,To follow where thy Truth shall lead;Afloat upon its boundless sea,Who sails with God is safe indeed.

Anew we pledge ourselves to Thee,

To follow where thy Truth shall lead;

Afloat upon its boundless sea,

Who sails with God is safe indeed.

———

O, though oft depressed and lonelyAll my fears are laid aside,If I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died.

O, though oft depressed and lonely

All my fears are laid aside,

If I but remember only

Such as these have lived and died.

———

It was only a glad "Good morning,"As she passed along the way;But it spread the morning's gloryOver the livelong day.

It was only a glad "Good morning,"

As she passed along the way;

But it spread the morning's glory

Over the livelong day.

———

For the right against the wrong,For the weak against the strong,For the poor who've waited long,For the brighter age to be.

For the right against the wrong,

For the weak against the strong,

For the poor who've waited long,

For the brighter age to be.

———

The gifts that to our breasts we foldAre brightened by our losses.The sweetest joys a heart can holdGrow up between its crosses.And on life's pathway many a mileIs made more glad and cheery,Because, for just a little while,The way seemed dark and dreary.—Nixon Waterman.

The gifts that to our breasts we fold

Are brightened by our losses.

The sweetest joys a heart can hold

Grow up between its crosses.

And on life's pathway many a mile

Is made more glad and cheery,

Because, for just a little while,

The way seemed dark and dreary.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

Wherever now a sorrow stands,'Tis mine to heal His nail-torn hands.In every lonely lane and street,'Tis mine to wash His wounded feet—'Tis mine to roll away the stoneAnd warm His heart against my own.Here, here on earth I find it all—The young archangels, white and tall,The Golden City and the doors,And all the shining of the floors!

Wherever now a sorrow stands,

'Tis mine to heal His nail-torn hands.

In every lonely lane and street,

'Tis mine to wash His wounded feet—

'Tis mine to roll away the stone

And warm His heart against my own.

Here, here on earth I find it all—

The young archangels, white and tall,

The Golden City and the doors,

And all the shining of the floors!

———

I sent my soul through the Invisible,Some letter of that After-life to spell;And by and by my soul returned to me,And answered, "I myself am Heaven and Hell."—Omar Khayyam.

I sent my soul through the Invisible,Some letter of that After-life to spell;And by and by my soul returned to me,And answered, "I myself am Heaven and Hell."

I sent my soul through the Invisible,

Some letter of that After-life to spell;

And by and by my soul returned to me,

And answered, "I myself am Heaven and Hell."

—Omar Khayyam.

———

Count that day really worse than lostYou might have made divine,Through which you scattered lots of frostAnd ne'er a speck of shine.—Nixon Waterman.

Count that day really worse than lostYou might have made divine,Through which you scattered lots of frostAnd ne'er a speck of shine.

Count that day really worse than lost

You might have made divine,

Through which you scattered lots of frost

And ne'er a speck of shine.

—Nixon Waterman.

———

O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness, His rest.—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,Round our restlessness, His rest.

O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west,

And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness,

Round our restlessness, His rest.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

———

If by one word I help another,A struggling and despairing brother,Or ease one bed of pain;If I but aid some sad one weeping,Or comfort one, lone vigil keeping,I have not lived in vain.

If by one word I help another,

A struggling and despairing brother,

Or ease one bed of pain;

If I but aid some sad one weeping,

Or comfort one, lone vigil keeping,

I have not lived in vain.

FOOTNOTES:[1]The poems by the Rev. Maltbie D. Babcock on this and the following page are reprinted, by special permission, from "Thoughts for Every Day Living," copyright, 1901, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

FOOTNOTES:

[1]The poems by the Rev. Maltbie D. Babcock on this and the following page are reprinted, by special permission, from "Thoughts for Every Day Living," copyright, 1901, by Charles Scribner's Sons.

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