The Project Gutenberg eBook, Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul, by Various, Edited by James Mudge

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Title: Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul

Author: Various

Editor: James Mudge

Release Date: April 22, 2009 [eBook #28591]

Language: English

Character set encoding: ISO-8859-1

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POEMS WITH POWER

TO

STRENGTHEN THE SOUL

COMPILED AND EDITED BY

JAMES MUDGE

REVISED AND ENLARGED EDITION

THE ABINGDON PRESS

NEW YORK CINCINNATI CHICAGO

Printed in the United States of America

First Edition Printed November, 1907
Second Printing, March, 1909
Third Printing, October, 1911
Fourth Printing, July, 1915
Fifth Printing, May, 1919
Sixth Printing, January, 1922
Seventh Printing, April, 1925
Eighth Printing, March, 1928
Ninth Printing, October, 1930
Tenth Printing, September, 1934

TO ALL

WHO ARE AT THE SAME TIME

LOVERS OF GOOD POETRY AND LOVERS OF GOOD CHARACTER,

DEVOTED TO GOD AND THEIR FELLOW-MEN, AS WELL AS TO

LITERATURE, THE COMPILER, WHO CLAIMS A LITTLE

PLACE IN THIS LARGE COMPANY,

DEDICATES THE RESULT OF HIS PLEASANT LABORS

	PAGE
PREFACE	vii
SUBJECTS:
HEROISM—Chivalry, Nobility, Honor, Truth	1
COURAGE—Constancy, Confidence, Strength, Valor	14
INDEPENDENCE—Manhood, Firmness, Earnestness, Resolution	22
GREATNESS—Fame, Success, Progress, Victory	28
DUTY—Loyalty, Faithfulness, Conscience, Zeal	41
SERVICE—Usefulness, Benevolence, Labor	50
BROTHERHOOD—Charity, Sympathy, Example, Influence	66
CONSECRATION—Submission, Devotion, Purity	79
PEACE—Rest, Calm, Stillness	88
HUMILITY—Meekness, Weakness, Selflessness	95
CONTENTMENT—Resignation, Patience, Compensation	103
ASPIRATION—Desire, Supplication, Growth	115
PRAYER—Worship, Communion, Devotion	123
JOY—Praise, Cheerfulness, Happiness	138
AFFLICTION—Consolation, Trial, Endurance	149
LOVE—Divine Goodness, Unselfishness	163
HOPE—Progress, Optimism, Enthusiasm	170
FAITH—Assurance, Doubt, Unbelief	177
TRUST—Guidance, Safety, Gladness	187
GOD'S CARE—Providence, God's Knowledge and Beneficence	199
GOD'S WILL—Obedience, Divine Union	209
GOD'S PRESENCE—Possession, Satisfaction, Reflection	221
JESUS—His Preciousness, and Beauty, and Love	233
LIFE—Time, Opportunity, Experience, Character	250
AGE AND DEATH—Maturity, Victory, Heaven	267
APPENDIX—MISCELLANEOUS SELECTIONS	278
INDEX TO AUTHORS	288
INDEX TO TITLES	292
INDEX TO FIRST LINES	298

{vii}

PREFACE

This is not like other collections of religious verse; still less is it a hymnal. The present volume is directed to a very specific and wholly practical end, the production of high personal character; and only those poems which have an immediate bearing in this direction have been admitted. We know of no other book published which has followed this special line. There are fine hymnals, deservedly dear to the Church, but they are necessarily devoted in large measure to institutional and theological subjects, are adapted to the wants of the general congregation and to purposes of song; while many poetical productions that touch the heart the closest are for that very reason unsuited to the hymnal. There are many anthologies and plentiful volumes of religious poetry, but not one coming within our ken has been made up as this has been. We have sought far and wide, through many libraries, carefully conning hundreds of books and glancing through hundreds more, to find just those lines which would have the most tonic and stimulating effect in the direction of holier, nobler living. We have coveted verses whose influence would be directly on daily life and would help to form the very best habits of thought and conduct, which would have intrinsic spiritual value and elevating power; those whose immediate tendency would be to make people better, toughening their moral fibre and helping them heavenward; those which they could hardly read attentively without feeling an impulse toward the things which are pure and true and honorable and lovely and of good report, things virtuous and praiseworthy.

It is surprising to one who has not made the search how very many poets there are whose voluminous and popular works yield nothing, or scarcely anything, of this sort. We have looked carefully through many scores of volumes of poetry without finding a line that could be of the slightest use in this collection. They were taken up altogether with other topics. They contained many pretty conceits, pleasant descriptions, lovely or lively narrations—these in abundance, but words that would send the spirit heavenward, or even earthward with any added love for humanity, not one. On the other hand, in papers and periodicals, even in books, are great multitudes of verses, unexceptionable in sentiment and helpful in influence, which bear so little of the true poetic afflatus, are so careless in construction or so faulty in diction, so imperfect in rhyme or rhythm, so much mingled with colloquialisms or so hopelessly commonplace in thought, as to be unworthy of a permanent place in a book like this. They would not bear reading many times. They would offend a properly educated taste. They would not so capture the ear as to linger on the memory with compelling persistence, nor strike the intellect as an exceptional presentation of important truth. The combination of fine form and deep or inspiring thought is by no means common, but, when found, very precious. We will not claim that this has been secured in all the poems here presented. Not all will approve our choice in all respects. There is {viii}nothing in which tastes more differ than in matters of this kind. And we will admit that in some cases we have let in—because of the important truth which they so well voiced—stanzas not fully up to the mark in point of poetic merit. Where it has not been possible to get the two desirable things together, as it has not always, we have been more solicitous for the sentiment that would benefit than for mere prettiness or perfection of form. Helpfulness has been the test oftener than a high literary standard. The labored workmanship of the vessel has not weighed so much with us as its perfect fitness to convey the water of life wherewith the thirsty soul of man has been or may be refreshed. If poets are properly judged, as has been alleged, by the frame of mind they induce, then some who have not gained great literary fame may still hold up their heads and claim a worthy crown.

Some poems fully within the scope of the book—like Longfellow's "Psalm of Life"—have been omitted because of their exceeding commonness and their accessibility. Many hymns of very high value—like "Jesus, Lover of my soul," "My faith looks up to thee," "Nearer, my God, to thee," "When all thy mercies, O my God," "How firm a foundation"—have also been omitted because they are found in all the hymnals, and to include them would unduly swell the size of the book. A few others, although similarly familiar, like "Jesus, I my cross have taken," and "God moves in a mysterious way," have been inserted from a feeling that even yet their depth and richness are not properly appreciated and that they can never be sufficiently pondered. A few poems we have been unable to procure permission to use; but in nearly all cases we have met with most generous treatment from both authors and publishers owning copyrights, and we take this occasion to express our hearty thanks for the kindness afforded in the following instances:

Houghton, Mifflin & Company, for the use of the poems and stanzas here found from Henry Wadsworth Longfellow, James Russell Lowell, John Greenleaf Whittier, Ralph Waldo Emerson, Oliver Wendell Holmes, Edward Rowland Sill, Celia Thaxter, Caroline Atherton Mason, Edna Dean Proctor, Edmund Clarence Stedman, John Burroughs, John Hay, William Dean Howells, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Lucy Larcom, Margaret E. Sangster, Francis Bret Harte, James Freeman Clarke, Samuel Longfellow, Samuel Johnson, Christopher Pearse Cranch, Thomas Wentworth Higginson, Elizabeth Stuart Phelps and John Vance Cheney.

Little, Brown & Company, for poems by Helen Hunt Jackson, Louise Chandler Moulton, William Rounseville Alger, "Susan Coolidge" [Sarah Chauncey Woolsey], and John White Chadwick.

Lothrop, Lee & Shepard Company, for poems by Sam Walter Foss.

D. Appleton & Company, for poems by William Cullen Bryant.

T. Y. Crowell & Company, for poems by Sarah Knowles Bolton.

Charles Scribner's Sons, for poems by Josiah Gilbert Holland.

The Century Company, for poems by Richard Watson Gilder.

The Bobbs-Merrill Company, for poems by James Whitcomb Riley.

Harper & Brothers, for poems by Edward Sandford Martin.

Small, Maynard & Co., for poems by Charlotte Perkins Gilman.

{ix}

The Rev. D. C. Knowles, for poems by Frederic Lawrence Knowles, especially from "Love Triumphant," published by Dana, Estes & Company.

The Rev. Frederic Rowland Marvin, for poems from his "Flowers of Song from Many Lands."

Professor Amos R. Wells, for poems from his "Just to Help."

Mr. Nixon Waterman, for poems from "In Merry Mood," published by Forbes & Co., of Chicago.

The selections from the above American authors are used by special arrangements with the firms mentioned, who are the only authorized publishers of their works. Many other poems used have been found in papers or other places which gave no indication of the original source. In spite of much effort to trace these things it is quite likely we have failed in some cases to give due credit or obtain the usual permission; and we hope that if such omissions, due to ignorance or inadvertence, are noticed they will be pardoned. Many unknown writers have left behind them some things of value, but their names have become detached from them or perhaps never were appended. Many volumes consulted have been long out of print.

We are glad to record our large indebtedness to the custodians of the Boston, Cambridge, Malden, Natick, Brookline, Jamaica Plain, Somerville, and Newton Public Libraries, the Boston Athenæum, the Congregational Library, the General Theological Library, and the Library of Harvard College, for free access to their treasures.

By far the greater part of the contents are from British and other foreign authors, such as William Wordsworth, Alfred Tennyson, Robert Browning, Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Dinah Maria Mulock Craik, Mrs. S. F. Adams, Anna Letitia Barbauld, Mrs. Charles, Frances Ridley Havergal, Anna Letitia Waring, Jean Ingelow, Adelaide Anne Procter, Mme. Guyon, Theodore Monod, Matthew Arnold, Edwin Arnold, William Shakespeare, John Milton, George Gordon Byron, Robert Burns, William Cowper, George Herbert, Robert Herrick, Francis Quarles, Frederick W. Faber, John Keble, Charles Kingsley, Alexander Pope, Joseph Addison, John Gay, Edward Young, Thomas Moore, John Newton, John Bunyan, H. Kirke White, Horatius Bonar, James Montgomery, Charles Wesley, Richard Baxter, Norman Macleod, George Heber, Richard Chenevix Trench, Henry Alford, Charles Mackay, Gerald Massey, Alfred Austin, Robert Louis Stevenson, Arthur Hugh Clough, Henry Burton, Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Hartley Coleridge, Joseph Anstice, George Macdonald, Robert Leighton, John Henry Newman, John Sterling, Edward H. Bickersteth, Dante Gabriel Rossetti, and many others. Of German authors there are not a few, including Johann W. von Goethe, Johann C. F. Schiller, George A. Neumarck, Paul Gerhardt, Benjamin Schmolke, S. C. Schoener, Scheffler, Karl Rudolf Hagenbach, S. Rodigast, Novalis, Wolfgang C. Dessler, L. Gedicke, Martin Luther, and Johann G. von Herder.

The number of American poets drawn upon is small compared with this list. It is the case in all such collections. According to an analysis of the hymns contained in the most widely used American hymnals down to 1880 the average number of hymns of purely American origin was not quite one in seven; the proportion would be a little larger now. And the number of Methodist poets is almost {x}nil, in spite of the fact that the compiler is a Methodist and the volume is issued from the official Methodist Publishing House. But if we thought that this would be any barrier to its wide circulation in Methodist homes we should be deeply ashamed for our church. We are confident it will not be. For mere denominational tenets do not at all enter into these great matters of the soul's life. A book like this speaks loudly for the real oneness, not only of all branches of the Christian Church, but of all religions, in some respects. Not only do we find the various Protestant denominations amply represented here; not only have we most inspiring words from Roman Catholic writers like Francis Xavier, Madame Guyon, Alexander Pope, John Henry Newman, Frederick W. Faber, and Adelaide Anne Procter; but from Mohammedan sources, from Sufi saints of Persia, and the Moslem devotees of Arabia, and even from Hinduism, there are utterances of noblest truth which we cannot read without a kindling heart. These are all brought together from the ends of the earth into a delightful "upper chamber," where the warring discords of opinion cease and an exceedingly precious peace prevails.

It should be said, though it is perhaps hardly necessary, that this is by no means a book to be read at a sitting. It furnishes very concentrated nourishment. It can be taken with largest profit only a little at a time, according as the mood demands and circumstances appoint. There should be very much meditation mingled with the perusal, an attempt to penetrate the deep meaning of the lines and have them enter into the soul for practical benefit. Some of these hymns have great histories: they are the war cries of combatants on hard-fought battle fields; they are living words of deep experience pressed out of the heart by strong feeling; they are the embodiment of visions caught on some Pisgah's glowing top. Here will be found and furnished hope for the faint-hearted, rest for the weary, courage for the trembling, cheer for the despondent, power for the weak, comfort for the afflicted, guidance in times of difficulty, wise counsel for moments of perplexity, a stimulant to faithfulness, a cure for the blues, exhilaration, jubilation. Everything of a depressing nature has been scrupulously ruled out. The keynote, persistently followed through all the pages, is optimistic, bright, buoyant. Trumpet calls and bugle notes are furnished in abundance, but no dirges or elegies. Large space, it will be seen, is given to such topics as Heroism, True Greatness, the Care and Presence of God, the blessings of Brotherliness, the privilege of Service, the path of Peace, the secret of Contentment, the mission of Prayer, the joy of Jesus, the meaning of Life, the glory of Love, the promise of Faith, the happy aspect of old Age and Death; for these subjects come very close home to the heart, and are illustrated in daily experience. Anyone who feels a special need in any of these directions is confidently recommended to turn to the proper sections and read the selections.

Very much that is here may easily and suitably be committed to memory, that thus it may the more permanently penetrate into the inmost depth of being. It may be used with most telling effect in sermons to give point and pungency to the thought of the preacher. Alike in popular discourse and public testimony or in private meditation these gems of sentiment and thought will come into play with great advantage. The benefit which may be derived from them can scarcely be overestimated. President Eliot, of Harvard University, has said: {xi}"There are bits of poetry in my mind learned in infancy that have stood by me in keeping me true to my ideas of duty and life. Rather than lose these I would have missed all the sermons I have ever heard." Many another can say substantially the same, can trace his best deeds very largely to the influence of some little stanza or couplet early stored away in his memory and coming ever freshly to mind in after years as the embodiment of truest wisdom.

We cannot guarantee in all cases the absolute correctness of the forms of the poems given, though much pains have been taken to ensure accuracy; but authors themselves make changes in their productions at different times in different editions. Nor have we always been able to trace the poem to its source. Slips and errors of various kinds can hardly be avoided in such matters. Even so competent an editor as John G. Whittier, in his "Songs of Three Centuries," ascribes "Love divine, all love excelling" to that bitter Calvinist, Augustus M. Toplady, giving it as the sole specimen of his verse; when it was really written by the ardent Arminian, Charles Wesley, with whom Toplady was on anything but friendly terms. If Whittier could make a blunder of this magnitude we may be pardoned if possibly a keen-eyed critic spies something in our book almost as grossly incorrect. In some cases we have been obliged to change the titles of poems so as to avoid reduplication in our index, or to adapt them the better to the small extract taken from the much longer form in the original. In a few cases we have made (indicated) alterations in poems to fit them more fully to the purpose of the book.

The volume will be found not only a readable one, we think, but also an uncommonly useful one for presentation by those who would do good and give gratification to their serious-minded friends with a taste for religious poetry and a love for wandering in the "holy land of song." He who would put before another the essential elements of religion would do better to give him such a book as this than a treatise on theology. He who would himself get a clear idea of what the religious life really is will do better to pore over these pages than to dip into some philosophical discussion. Here the best life is expressed rather than analyzed, exhibited rather than explained. Mrs. Browning has well said, "Plant a poet's word deep enough in any man's breast, looking presently for offshoots, and you have done more for the man than if you dressed him in a broadcloth coat and warmed his Sunday pottage at your fire." We who, by preparing or circulating such volumes, aid the poets in finding a larger circle to whom to give their message, may claim a part of the blessing which comes to those who in any way aid humanity. George Herbert has said,

"A verse may find him who a sermon flies,

And turn delight into a sacrifice."

He himself most excellently illustrated the sentiment by bequeathing to the world many beautiful verses that are sermons of the most picturesque sort.

One definition of poetry is "a record of the best thoughts and best moments of the best and happiest minds." This in itself would almost be sufficient to establish the connection between poetry and religion. It is certain that the two have very close and vital relations. Dr. Washington Gladden has admirably remarked, {xii}"Poetry is indebted to religion for its largest and loftiest inspirations, and religion is indebted to poetry for its subtlest and most luminous interpretations." No doubt a man may be truly, deeply religious who has little or no development on the æsthetic side, to whom poetry makes no special appeal. But it is certain that he whose soul is deaf to the "concord of sweet sounds" misses a mighty aid in the spiritual life. For a hymn is a wing by which the spirit soars above earthly cares and trials into a purer air and a clearer sunshine. Nothing can better scatter the devils of melancholy and gloom or doubt and fear. When praise and prayer, trust and love, faith and hope, and similar sentiments, have passed into and through some poet's passionate soul, until he has become so charged with them that he has been able to fix them in a form of expression where beauty is united to strength, where concentration and ornamentation are alike secured, then the deepest needs of great numbers are fully met. What was vague and dim is brought into light. What was only half conceived, and so but half felt, is made to grip the soul with power. Poetry is of the very highest value for the inspiration and guidance of life, for calling out the emotions and opening up spiritual visions. It carries truths not only into the understanding, but into the heart, where they are likely to have the most direct effect on conduct.

In the language of Robert Southey, I commit these pages to the Christian public, with a sincere belief that much benefit will result to all who shall read them:

"Go forth, little book, from this my solitude;

I cast thee on the waters,—go thy ways;

And if, as I believe, thy vein be good,

The world will find thee after many days.

Be it with thee according to thy worth;

Go, little book! in faith I send thee forth."

James Mudge.

Malden, Mass.

{1}

HEROISM

CHIVALRY, NOBILITY, HONOR, TRUTH

THE INEVITABLE

I like the man who faces what he must,

With step triumphant and a heart of cheer;

Who fights the daily battle without fear;

Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust

That God is God; that somehow, true and just,

His plans work out for mortals; not a tear

Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear,

Falls from his grasp: better, with love, a crust

Than living in dishonor: envies not,

Nor loses faith in man; but does his best,

Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot,

But, with a smile and words of hope, gives zest

To every toiler: he alone is great

Who by a life heroic conquers fate.

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

———

DEFEATED YET TRIUMPHANT

They never fail who die

In a great cause. The block may soak their gore;

Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs

Be strung to city gates and castle walls;

But still their spirit walks abroad.

Though years

Elapse and others share as dark a doom,

They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts

Which overpower all others and conduct

The world, at last, to freedom.

—George Gordon Byron.

———

A HERO GONE

He has done the work of a true man—

Crown him, honor him, love him;

Weep over him, tears of woman,

Stoop, manliest brows, above him!

For the warmest of hearts is frozen;

The freest of hands is still;

And the gap in our picked and chosen

The long years may not fill.

No duty could overtask him,

No need his will outrun:

Or ever our lips could ask him,

His hands the work had done.

He forgot his own life for others,

Himself to his neighbor lending.

Found the Lord in his suffering brothers,

And not in the clouds descending.

And he saw, ere his eye was darkened,

The sheaves of the harvest-bringing;

And knew, while his ear yet hearkened,

The voice of the reapers singing.

Never rode to the wrong's redressing

A worthier paladin.

He has heard the Master's blessing,

"Good and faithful, enter in!"

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

———

THE CHARGE

They outtalked thee, hissed thee, tore thee?

Better men fared thus before thee;

Fired their ringing shot and pass'd,

Hotly charged—and sank at last.

Charge once more, then, and be dumb!

Let the victors, when they come,

When the forts of folly fall,

Find thy body by the wall!

—Matthew Arnold.

{2}

———

THE REFORMER

Before the monstrous wrong he sets him down—

One man against a stone-walled city of sin.

For centuries those walls have been abuilding;

Smooth porphyry, they slope and coldly glass

The flying storm and wheeling sun. No chink,

No crevice, lets the thinnest arrow in.

He fights alone, and from the cloudy ramparts

A thousand evil faces gibe and jeer him.

Let him lie down and die: what is the right,

And where is justice, in a world like this?

But by and by earth shakes herself, impatient;

And down, in one great roar of ruin, crash

Watch-tower and citadel and battlements.

When the red dust has cleared, the lonely soldier

Stands with strange thoughts beneath the friendly stars.

—Edward Rowland Sill.

———

LIFE AND DEATH

So he died for his faith. That is fine—

More than most of us do.

But, say, can you add to that line

That he lived for it, too?

In his death he bore witness at last

As a martyr to truth.

Did his life do the same in the past

From the days of his youth?

It is easy to die. Men have died

For a wish or a whim—

From bravado or passion or pride.

Was it harder for him?

But to live—every day to live out

All the truth that he dreamt,

While his friends met his conduct with doubt

And the world with contempt.

Was it thus that he plodded ahead,

Never turning aside?

Then we'll talk of the life that he lived.

Never mind how he died.

—Ernest Crosby.

———

THE RED PLANET MARS

The star of the unconquered will,

He rises in my breast,

Serene, and resolute, and still,

And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art,

That readest this brief psalm,

As one by one thy hopes depart,

Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this,

And thou shalt know erelong,—

Know how sublime a thing it is

To suffer and be strong.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS PRAISE THEE

Not they alone who from the bitter strife

Came forth victorious, yielding willingly

That which they deem most precious, even life,

Content to suffer all things, Christ, for Thee;

Not they alone whose feet so firmly trod

The pathway ending in rack, sword and flame,

Foreseeing death, yet faithful to their Lord,

Enduring for His sake the pain and shame;

Not they alone have won the martyr's palm,

Not only from their life proceeds the eternal psalm.

For earth hath martyrs now, a saintly throng;

Each day unnoticed do we pass them by;

'Mid busy crowds they calmly move along,

Bearing a hidden cross, how patiently!

Not theirs the sudden anguish, swift and keen,

Their hearts are worn and wasted with small cares,

With daily griefs and thrusts from foes unseen;

Troubles and trials that take them unawares;

Theirs is a lingering, silent martyrdom;

They weep through weary years, and long for rest to come.{3}

They weep, but murmur not; it is God's will,

And they have learned to bend their own to his;

Simply enduring, knowing that each ill

Is but the herald of some future bliss;

Striving and suffering, yet so silently

They know it least who seem to know them best.

Faithful and true through long adversity

They work and wait until God gives them rest;

These surely share with those of bygone days

The palm-branch and the crown, and swell their song of praise.

———

THE HAPPY WARRIOR

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high,

Conspicuous object in a nation's eye,

Or left unthought of in obscurity,

Who, with a toward or untoward lot,

Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,—

Plays, in the many games of life, that one

Where what he most doth value must be won;

Whom neither shape of danger can dismay,

Nor thought of tender happiness betray;

Who, not content that former work stand fast,

Looks forward, persevering to the last,

From well to better, daily self-surpast;

Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth

Forever, and to noble deeds give birth,

Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame,

And leave a dead, unprofitable name—

Finds comfort in himself and in his cause,

And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws

His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause:

This is the happy warrior; this is he

That every man in arms should wish to be.

—William Wordsworth.

———

Aground the man who seeks a noble end

Not angels but divinities attend.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

ROBERT BROWNING'S MESSAGE

Grow old along with me!

The best is yet to be,

The last of life, for which the first was made;

Our times are in His hand

Who saith, "A whole I planned,

Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Poor vaunt of life indeed,

Were man but formed to feed

On joy, to solely seek and find and feast;

Such feasting ended, then

As sure an end to men:

Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Then welcome each rebuff

That turns earth's smoothness rough,

Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go!

Be our joys three parts pain!

Strive, and hold cheap the strain;

Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence—a paradox

Which comforts while it mocks—

Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail:

What I aspired to be,

And was not, comforts me:

A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

* * * * * * *

Not on the vulgar mass

Called "work" must sentence pass,

Things done, that took the eye and had the price;

O'er which, from level stand,

The low world laid its hand,

Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb

And finger failed to plumb,

So passed in making up the main account;

All instincts immature,

All purposes unsure,

That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:{4}

Thoughts hardly to be packed

Into a narrow act,

Fancies that broke through language and escaped;

All I could never be,

All, men ignored in me,

This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

* * * * * * *

Fool! All that is, at all,

Lasts ever, past recall;

Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure:

What entered into thee

That was, is, and shall be:

Time's wheel runs back or stops; Potter and clay endure.

—From "Rabbi Ben Ezra."

———

TRUTH AND FALSEHOOD

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide,

In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side;

Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight,

Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right,

And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record

One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word;

Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne—

Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown,

Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch, above his own.

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust,

Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just;

Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside,

Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified,

And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes—they were souls that stood alone

While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone;

Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline

To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine,

By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track,

Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back,

And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned

One new word of that grand Credo which in prophet-hearts hath burned

Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands,

On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands;

Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn,

While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return

To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves

Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves;

Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;—

Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time?

Turn those tracks toward Past or Future that make Plymouth Rock sublime?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires,

Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires;

Shall we make their creed our jailer? shall we in our haste to slay,

From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away

To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth;

They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth;

Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be,

Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea,

Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key.

—James Russell Lowell.

{5}

———

COLUMBUS

Behind him lay the gray Azores,

Behind the Gates of Hercules;

Before him not the ghost of shores,

Before him only shoreless seas.

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

For lo! the very stars are gone,

Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?"

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

"My men grow mutinous day by day;

My men grow ghastly wan and weak."

The stout mate thought of home; a spray

Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek.

"What shall I say, brave Admiral, say,

If we sight naught but seas at dawn?"

"Why, you shall say at break of day,

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

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow,

Until at last the blanched mate said:

"Why, now not even God would know

Should I and all my men fall dead.

These very winds forget their way,

For God from these dread seas is gone.

Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say—"

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

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate:

"This mad sea shows its teeth to-night.

He curls his lip, he lies in wait,

With lifted teeth, as if to bite!

Brave Admiral, say but one good word.

What shall we do when hope is gone?"

The words leapt as a leaping sword,

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

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

And peered through darkness. Ah, that night

Of all dark nights! And then a speck—

A light! A light! A light!

It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

It grew to be Time's burst of dawn:

He gained a world; he gave that world

Its grandest lesson: "On, and on!"

—Joaquin Miller.

———

THE CHOSEN FEW

The Son of God goes forth to war,

A kingly crown to gain;

His blood-red banner streams afar;

Who follows in his train.

Who best can drink His cup of woe,

And triumph over pain,

Who patient bears His cross below—

He follows in His train.

A glorious band, the chosen few,

On whom the Spirit came;

Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,

And mocked the cross and flame.

They climbed the dizzy steep to heaven

Through peril, toil and pain;

O God! to us may grace be given

To follow in their train!

—Reginald Heber.

———

HOW DID YOU DIE?

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

With a resolute heart and cheerful,

Or hide your face from the light of day

With a craven soul and fearful?

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

Or a trouble is what you make it,

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

But only—how did you take it?

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

Come up with a smiling face.

It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

But to lie there—that's disgrace.

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

Be proud of your blackened eye!

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

It's how did you fight—and why?

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

If you battled the best you could.

If you played your part in the world of men,

Why, the Critic will call it good.

Death comes with a crawl or comes with a pounce,

And whether he's slow or spry,

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

But only—how did you die?

—Edmund Vance Cooke.

{6}

———

LUTHER

That which he knew he uttered,

Conviction made him strong;

And with undaunted courage

He faced and fought the wrong.

No power on earth could silence him

Whom love and faith made brave;

And though four hundred years have gone

Men strew with flowers his grave.

A frail child born to poverty,

A German miner's son;

A poor monk searching in his cell,

What honors he has won!

The nations crown him faithful,

A man whom truth made free;

God give us for these easier times

More men as real as he!

—Marianne Farningham.

———

THE MARTYRS

Flung to the heedless winds,

Or on the waters cast,

The martyrs' ashes, watched,

Shall gathered be at last;

And from that scattered dust,

Around us and abroad,

Shall spring a plenteous seed

Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received

Their latest living breath;

And vain is Satan's boast

Of victory in their death;

Still, still, though dead, they speak,

And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim

To many a wakening land,

The one availing name.

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

———

Stainless soldier on the walls,

Knowing this—and knows no more—

Whoever fights, whoever falls,

Justice conquers evermore,

Justice after as before;

And he who battles on her side,

God, though he were ten times slain,

Crowns him victor glorified,

Victor over death and pain.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

ETERNAL JUSTICE

The man is thought a knave, or fool,

Or bigot, plotting crime,

Who, for the advancement of his kind,

Is wiser than his time.

For him the hemlock shall distil;

For him the axe be bared;

For him the gibbet shall be built;

For him the stake prepared.

Him shall the scorn and wrath of men

Pursue with deadly aim;

And malice, envy, spite, and lies,

Shall desecrate his name.

But Truth shall conquer at the last,

For round and round we run;

And ever the Right comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done.

Pace through thy cell, old Socrates,

Cheerily to and fro;

Trust to the impulse of thy soul,

And let the poison flow.

They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay

That holds a light divine,

But they cannot quench the fire of thought

By any such deadly wine.

They cannot blot thy spoken words

From the memory of man

By all the poison ever was brewed

Since time its course began.

To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored,

For round and round we run,

And ever the Truth comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done.

Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite;

Be wiser than thy peers;

Augment the range of human power,

And trust to coming years.

They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed,

And load thee with dispraise;

Thou wert born five hundred years too soon

For the comfort of thy days;

But not too soon for human kind.

Time hath reward in store;

And the demons of our sires become

The saints that we adore.

The blind can see, the slave is lord,

So round and round we run;

And ever the Wrong is proved to be wrong

And ever is Justice done.{7}

Keep, Galileo, to thy thought,

And nerve thy soul to bear;

They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring

From the pangs of thy despair;

They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide

The sun's meridian glow;

The heel of a priest may tread thee down

And a tyrant work thee woe;

But never a truth has been destroyed;

They may curse it and call it crime;

Pervert and betray, or slander and slay

Its teachers for a time.

But the sunshine aye shall light the sky,

As round and round we run;

And the Truth shall ever come uppermost,

And Justice shall be done.

And live there now such men as these—

With thoughts like the great of old?

Many have died in their misery,

And left their thought untold;

And many live, and are ranked as mad,

And are placed in the cold world's ban,

For sending their bright, far-seeing souls

Three centuries in the van.

They toil in penury and grief,

Unknown, if not maligned;

Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn

Of the meanest of mankind!

But yet the world goes round and round,

And the genial seasons run;

And ever the Truth comes uppermost,

And ever is Justice done.

—Charles Mackay.

———

We cannot kindle when we will

The fire which in the heart resides.

The spirit bloweth and is still;

In mystery our soul abides:

But tasks in hours of insight willed

Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

With aching hands and bleeding feet

We dig and heap, lay stone on stone;

We bear the burden and the heat

Of the long day, and wish 'twere done.

Not till the hours of light return,

All we have built do we discern.

—Matthew Arnold.

———

WHAT MAKES A HERO?

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

Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim

Of glutted avarice—caps tossed up in air,

Or pen of journalist with flourish fair;

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

These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare;

His rightful tribute, not his end or aim,

Or true reward; for never yet did these

Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease.

What makes a hero?—An heroic mind,

Expressed in action, in endurance proved.

And if there be preëminence of right,

Derived through pain well suffered, to the height

Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved

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

Not the brute fury of barbarians blind,

But worse—ingratitude and poisonous darts,

Launched by the country he had served and loved.

This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure,

This, in the strength of silence to endure,

A dignity to noble deeds imparts

Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown;

This is the hero's complement and crown;

This missed, one struggle had been wanting still—

One glorious triumph of the heroic will,

One self-approval in his heart of hearts.

—Henry Taylor.

———

As the bird trims her to the gale

I trim myself to the storm of time;

I man the rudder, reef the sail,

Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime;

"Lowly faithful banish fear,

Right onward drive unharmed;

The port, well worth the cruise, is near,

And every wave is charmed."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

{8}

———

DEMAND FOR MEN

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

Men who shall join its chorus and prolong

The psalm of labor, and the psalm of love.

The times want scholars—scholars who shall shape

The doubtful destinies of dubious years,

And land the ark that bears our country's good

Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last.

The age wants heroes—heroes who shall dare

To struggle in the solid ranks of truth;

To clutch the monster error by the throat;

To bear opinion to a loftier seat;

To blot the era of oppression out,

And lead a universal freedom on.

And heaven wants souls—fresh and capacious souls;

To taste its raptures, and expand, like flowers,

Beneath the glory of its central sun.

It wants fresh souls—not lean and shrivelled ones;

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

If thou indeed wilt be what scholars should;

If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive

To help thy fellow and exalt thyself,

Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors;

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

Each single heart with myriad raptures filled—

While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings,

Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.

———

Blessed are they who die for God,

And earn the martyr's crown of light;

Yet he who lives for God may be

A greater conqueror in his sight.

———

Better to stem with heart and hand

The roaring tide of life than lie,

Unmindful, on its flowery strand,

Of God's occasions drifting by!

———

TRUTH

Truth will prevail, though men abhor

The glory of its light;

And wage exterminating war

And put all foes to flight.

Though trodden under foot of men,

Truth from the dust will spring,

And from the press—the lip—the pen—

In tones of thunder ring.

Beware—beware, ye who resist

The light that beams around,

Lest, ere you look through error's mist,

Truth strike you to the ground.

—D. C. Colesworthy.

———

TO A REFORMER

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

Bear wisdom, in your judgment, rich and strong,

Give voice to them though no man heed your speech,

Since right is right though all the world go wrong.

The proof that you believe what you declare

Is that you still stand firm though throngs pass by;

Rather cry truth a lifetime to void air

Than flatter listening millions with one lie!

—Edgar Fawcett.

———

TEACH ME THE TRUTH

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

My cherished dreams and fondest fancy's play;

Give me to know the darkness from the light,

The night from day.

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

In casting out the falsehood for the true;

Help me to take my shattered life and make

Its actions new.{9}

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

The rocky path that opens out to me;

Rough it may be, but let the way be clear

That leads to thee.

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

When man-made dogmas vanish with the night,

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

Thou living Light.

—Frances Lockwood Green.

———

HEROISM

It takes great strength to train

To modern service your ancestral brain;

To lift the weight of the unnumbered years

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

To hold that back with one hand, and support

With the other the weak steps of the new thought.

It takes great strength to bring your life up square

With your accepted thought and hold it there;

Resisting the inertia that drags back

From new attempts to the old habit's track.

It is so easy to drift back, to sink;

So hard to live abreast of what you think.

It takes great strength to live where you belong

When other people think that you are wrong;

People you love, and who love you, and whose

Approval is a pleasure you would choose.

To bear this pressure and succeed at length

In living your belief—well, it takes strength,

And courage, too. But what does courage mean

Save strength to help you face a pain foreseen?

Courage to undertake this lifelong strain

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

Dangerous risk of walking lone and free

Out of the easy paths that used to be,

And the fierce pain of hurting those we love

When love meets truth, and truth must ride above.

But the best courage man has ever shown

Is daring to cut loose and think alone.

Dark are the unlit chambers of clear space

Where light shines back from no reflecting face.

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

We owe to fog and dust they fumble through;

And our rich wisdom that we treasure so

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

But to think new—it takes a courage grim

As led Columbus over the world's rim.

To think it cost some courage. And to go—

Try it. It takes every power you know.

It takes great love to stir the human heart

To live beyond the others and apart.

A love that is not shallow, is not small,

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

Love that can wound love for its higher need;

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

Love that can lose love, family and friend,

Yet steadfastly live, loving, to the end.

A love that asks no answer, that can live

Moved by one burning, deathless force—to give.

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

The heroes of all time are built thereof.

—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

{10}

———

TO TRUTH

O star of truth down shining

Through clouds of doubt and fear,

I ask but 'neath your guidance

My pathway may appear.

However long the journey

How hard soe'er it be,

Though I be lone and weary,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

I know thy blessed radiance

Can never lead astray,

However ancient custom

May trend some other way.

E'en if through untried deserts,

Or over trackless sea,

Though I be lone and weary,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

The bleeding feet of martyrs

Thy toilsome road have trod.

But fires of human passion

May light the way to God.

Then, though my feet should falter,

While I thy beams can see,

Though I be lone and weary,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

Though loving friends forsake me,

Or plead with me in tears—

Though angry foes may threaten

To shake my soul with fears—

Still to my high allegiance

I must not faithless be.

Through life or death, forever,

Lead on, I'll follow thee.

—Minot J. Savage.

———

NOBLESSE OBLIGE

Not ours nobility of this world's giving

Granted by monarchs of some earthly throne;

Not this life only which is worth the living,

Nor honor here worth striving for alone.

Princes are we, and of a line right royal;

Heirs are we of a glorious realm above;

Yet bound to service humble, true, and loyal,

For thus constraineth us our Monarch's love.

And looking to the joy that lies before us,

The crown held out to our once fallen race;

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

Man is restored to nature's noblest place.

Noblesse oblige—(our very watchword be it!)

To raise the fallen from this low estate,

To boldly combat wrong whene'er we see it,

To render good for evil, love for hate.

Noblesse oblige—to deeds of valiant daring

In alien lands which other lords obey,

And into farthest climes our standard bearing,

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

Noblesse oblige—that, grudging not our treasure,

Nor seeking any portion to withhold,

We freely give it, without stint or measure,

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

Noblesse oblige—that, looking upward ever,

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

Till, through that grace which can from death deliver,

We claim our noble heritage above!

———

OUR HEROES

The winds that once the Argo bore

Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines,

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

Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.

You may seek her crew in every isle,

Fair in the foam of Ægean seas,

But out of their sleep no charm can wile

Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.{11}

And Priam's voice is heard no more

By windy Illium's sea-built walls;

From the washing wave and the lonely shore

No wail goes up as Hector falls.

On Ida's mount is the shining snow,

But Jove has gone from its brow away,

And red on the plain the poppies grow

Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?

Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red

All that is left of the brave of yore?

Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,

Far in the young world's misty dawn?

Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;

Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,

And catch the light of their glorious eyes,

And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.

Whenever a noble deed is done,

There are the souls of our heroes stirred;

Whenever a field for truth is won,

There are our heroes' voices heard.

Their armor rings in a fairer field

Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,

For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,

And the light above them the smile of God!

So, in his Isle of calm delight,

Jason may dream the years away,

But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,

And the world is a braver world to-day.

—Edna Dean Proctor.

———

The hero is not fed on sweets,

Daily his own heart he eats;

Chambers of the great are jails,

And head winds right for royal sails.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS

They seemed to die on battle-field,

To die with justice, truth, and law;

The bloody corpse, the broken shield,

Were all that senseless folly saw.

But, like Antæus from the turf,

They sprung refreshed, to strive again,

Where'er the savage and the serf

Rise to the rank of men.

They seemed to die by sword and fire,

Their voices hushed in endless sleep;

Well might the noblest cause expire

Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap;

Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied

The legions of their pagan foes;

And in the truths they testified,

From out the ashes rose.

———

WORTH WHILE

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

To say if I will follow truth and Thee,

Or choose instead to win, as better worth

My pains, some cloying recompense of earth—

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

Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,

Home to obscure endurance to be borne

Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn.

—Edward Sandford Martin.

———

WILL

O, well for him whose will is strong!

He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong.

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

Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,

Who seems a promontory of rock,

That, compassed round with turbulent sound,

In middle ocean meets the surging shock,

Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.

—Alfred Tennyson.

{12}

———

NOBLE DEEDS

Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,

Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

Our hearts in glad surprise,

To higher levels rise.

The tidal wave of deeper souls

Into our inmost being rolls,

And lifts us unawares

Out of all meaner cares.

Honor to those whose words or deeds

Thus help us in our daily needs,

And by their overflow

Raise us from what is low!

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

———

GOD'S HEROES

Not on the gory field of fame

Their noble deeds were done;

Not in the sound of earth's acclaim

Their fadeless crowns were won.

Not from the palaces of kings,

Nor fortune's sunny clime,

Came the great souls, whose life-work flings

Luster o'er earth and time.

For truth with tireless zeal they sought;

In joyless paths they trod—

Heedless of praise or blame they wrought,

And left the rest to God.

The lowliest sphere was not disdained;

Where love could soothe or save,

They went, by fearless faith sustained,

Nor knew their deeds were brave.

The foes with which they waged their strife

Were passion, self, and sin;

The victories that laureled life

Were fought and won within.

Not names in gold emblazoned here,

And great and good confessed,

In Heaven's immortal scroll appear

As noblest and as best.

No sculptured stone in stately temple

Proclaims their rugged lot;

Like Him who was their great example,

This vain world knew them not.

But though their names no poet wove

In deathless song or story,

Their record is inscribed above;

Their wreaths are crowns of glory.

—Edward Hartley Dewart.

———

WORLDLY PLACE

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

So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men,

Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den

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

Our freedom for a little bread we sell,

And drudge under some foolish master's ken,

Who rates us if we peer outside our pen—

Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?

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

Who spoke these words no shadow ever came;

And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame

Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,

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

The aids to noble life are all within."

—Matthew Arnold.

———

THE VICTORY

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

To mingle, yet dwell apart;

To be by roughest seas how rudely tossed,

Yet bate no jot of heart;

To hold thy course among the heavenly stars,

Yet dwell upon the earth;

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

Yet win all Freedom's worth.

—Sydney Henry Morse.

———

'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes

with those we cherish near,

And wafted upward by their sighs soar

to some calmer sphere;

But whether on the scaffold high or

in the battle's van

The fittest place where man can die

is where he dies for man.

—Michael Joseph Barry.

{13}

———

A TRUE HERO

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

Not at the battle front, writ of in story,

Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;

Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,

Died he—this Hero now; hero forever.

No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him;

No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;

Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.

Only an honest man doing his duty;

Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,

Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;

Death found—and touched him with finger in flying—

Lo! he rose up complete—hero undying.

Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him,

Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;

Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling,

And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;

Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;

Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.

So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,

Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

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

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

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

———

Unless above himself he can

Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.

—Samuel Daniel.

———

BATTLES

Nay, not for place, but for the right,

To make this fair world fairer still—

Or lowly lily of the night,

Or sun topped tower of a hill,

Or high or low, or near or far,

Or dull or keen, or bright or dim,

Or blade of grass, or brightest star—

All, all are but the same to him.

O pity of the strife for place!

O pity of the strife for power!

How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!

How fair the face of a flower!

The blade of grass beneath your feet

The bravest sword—aye, braver far

To do and die in mute defeat

Than bravest conqueror of war!

When I am dead, say this, but this:

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

Or banner bore, but helmetless,

Alone, unknown, he held the field;

He held the field, with sabre drawn,

Where God had set him in the fight;

He held the field, fought on and on,

And so fell, fighting for the right!"

—Joaquin Miller.

———

While thus to love he gave his days

In loyal worship, scorning praise,

How spread their lures for him in vain,

Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!

He thought it happier to be dead,

To die for Beauty than live for bread.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

———

Whether we climb, whether we plod,

Space for one task the scant years lend,

To choose some path that leads to God,

And keep it to the end.

—Lizette Woodworth Reese.

———

Bravely to do whate'er the time demands,

Whether with pen or sword, and not to flinch,

This is the task that fits heroic hands;

So are Truth's boundaries widened, inch by inch.

—James Russell Lowell.

{14}

COURAGE

CONSTANCY, CONFIDENCE, STRENGTH, VALOR

THE BATTLEFIELD

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands,

Were trampled by a hurrying crowd,

And fiery hearts and armed hands

Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget

How gushed the life-blood of her brave—

Gushed, warm with life and courage yet,

Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still,

Alone the chirp of flitting bird,

And talks of children on the hill,

And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by

The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain;

Men start not at the battle-cry;

Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou

Who minglest in the harder strife

For truths which men receive not now,

Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long

Through weary day and weary year;

A wild and many-weaponed throng

Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof.

And blench not at thy chosen lot;

The timid good may stand aloof,

The sage may frown—yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast,

The foul and hissing bolt of scorn;

For with thy side shall dwell at last

The victory of endurance born.

Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again;

The eternal years of God are hers;

But Error, wounded, writhes in pain,

And dies among his worshipers.

Yea, though thou lie upon the dust,

When they who helped thee flee in fear,

Die full of hope and manly trust,

Like those who fell in battle here.

Another hand thy sword shall wield,

Another hand the standard wave,

Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed,

The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.

—William Cullen Bryant

———

DARE YOU?

Doubting Thomas and loving John,

Behind the others walking on:

"Tell me now, John, dare you be

One of the minority?

To be lonely in your thought,

Never visited nor sought,

Shunned with secret shrug, to go

Through the world esteemed its foe;

To be singled out and hissed,

Pointed at as one unblessed,

Warned against in whispers faint,

Lest the children catch a taint;

To bear off your titles well,—

Heretic and infidel?

If you dare, come now with me,

Fearless, confident and free."

"Thomas, do you dare to be

Of the great majority?

To be only, as the rest,

With Heaven's common comforts blessed;{15}

To accept, in humble part,

Truth that shines on every heart;

Never to be set on high,

Where the envious curses fly;

Never name or fame to find,

Still outstripped in soul and mind;

To be hid, unless to God,

As one grass-blade in the sod;

Underfoot with millions trod?

If you dare, come with us, be

Lost in love's great unity."

—Edward Rowland Sill.

———

SENSITIVENESS

Time was I shrank from what was right,

From fear of what was wrong;

I would not brave the sacred fight

Because the foe was strong.

But now I cast that finer sense

And sorer shame aside;

Such dread of sin was indolence,

Such aim at heaven was pride.

So when my Saviour calls I rise,

And calmly do my best;

Leaving to Him, with silent eyes

Of hope and fear, the rest.

I step, I mount, where He has led;

Men count my haltings o'er;

I know them; yet, though self I dread,

I love His precept more.

—John Henry Newman.

———

COURAGE

Because I hold it sinful to despond,

And will not let the bitterness of life

Blind me with burning tears, but look beyond

Its tumult and its strife;

Because I lift my head above the mist,

Where the sun shines and the broad breezes blow,

By every ray and every raindrop kissed

That God's love doth bestow;

Think you I find no bitterness at all?

No burden to be borne, like Christian's pack?

Think you there are no ready tears to fall

Because I keep them back?

Why should I hug life's ills with cold reserve,

To curse myself and all who love me? Nay!

A thousand times more good than I deserve

God gives me every day.

And in each one of these rebellious tears

Kept bravely back He makes a rainbow shine;

Gratefully I take His slightest gift, no fears

Nor any doubts are mine.

Dark skies must clear, and when the clouds are past

One golden day redeems a weary year;

Patient I listen, sure that sweet at last

Will sound his voice of cheer.

Then vex me not with chiding. Let me be.

I must be glad and grateful to the end.

I grudge you not your cold and darkness,—me

The powers of light befriend.

—Celia Thaxter.

———

DO AND BE BLEST

Dare to think, though others frown;

Dare in words your thoughts express;

Dare to rise, though oft cast down;

Dare the wronged and scorned to bless.

Dare from custom to depart;

Dare the priceless pearl possess;

Dare to wear it next your heart;

Dare, when others curse, to bless.

Dare forsake what you deem wrong;

Dare to walk in wisdom's way,

Dare to give where gifts belong,

Dare God's precepts to obey.

Do what conscience says is right,

Do what reason says is best,

Do with all your mind and might;

Do your duty and be blest.

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———

A PLACE WITH HIM

O tired worker, faltering on life's rugged way,

With faithful hands so full they may not rest,

Forget not that the weak of earth have one sure stay,

And humblest ones by God himself are blest,

Who work for Him!

Then courage take, faint heart! and though the path be long

God's simple rule thy steps will safely guide:—

"Love Him, thy neighbor as thyself, and do no wrong";

In calm content they all shall surely bide

Who walk with Him!

So banish every fear, each daily task take up,

God's grace thy failing strength shall build anew;

His mercy, in thy sorrows, stay the flowing cup:

And His great love keep for thy spirit true

A place with him!

—J. D. Seabury.

———

GOD A FORTRESS

A mighty fortress is our God,

A bulwark never failing:

Our Helper, he, amid the flood

Of mortal ills prevailing.

For still our ancient foe

Doth seek to work us woe;

His craft and power are great,

And, armed with cruel hate,

On earth is not his equal.

Did we in our own strength confide,

Our striving would be losing;

Were not the right man on our side,

The man of God's own choosing.

Dost ask who that may be?

Christ Jesus, it is he;

Lord Sabaoth is his name,

From age to age the same,

And he must win the battle.

And though this world, with devils filled,

Should threaten to undo us;

We will not fear, for God hath willed

His truth to triumph through us.

The Prince of darkness grim—

We tremble not for him;

His rage we can endure,

For lo! his doom is sure,

One little word shall fell him.

That word above all earthly powers—

No thanks to them—abideth;

The Spirit and the gifts are ours

Through him who with us sideth.

Let goods and kindred go,

This mortal life also;

The body they may kill:

God's truth abideth still,

His kingdom is forever.

—Martin Luther, tr. by Frederick H. Hedge.

———

STRENGTH

Be strong to hope, O heart!

Though day is bright,

The stars can only shine

In the dark night.

Be strong, O heart of mine,

Look toward the light.

Be strong to bear, O heart!

Nothing is vain:

Strive not, for life is care,

And God sends pain.

Heaven is above, and there

Rest will remain.

Be strong to love, O heart!

Love knows not wrong;

Didst thou love creatures even,

Life were not long;

Didst thou love God in heaven

Thou wouldst be strong.

———

Why comes temptation but for man to meet

And master and make crouch beneath his foot,

And so be pedestaled in triumph? Pray,

"Lead us into no such temptation, Lord!"

Yea, but, O thou whose servants are the bold,

Lead such temptations by the head and hair,

Reluctant dragons, up to who dares fight,

That so he may do battle and have praise.

—Robert Browning.

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———

BE JUST AND FEAR NOT

Speak thou the truth. Let others fence,

And trim their words for pay:

In pleasant sunshine of pretense

Let others bask their day.

Guard thou the fact; though clouds of night

Down on thy watch tower stoop:

Though thou shouldst see thine heart's delight

Borne from thee by their swoop.

Face thou the wind. Though safer seem

In shelter to abide:

We were not made to sit and dream:

The safe must first be tried.

Where God hath set His thorns about,

Cry not, "The way is plain":

His path within for those without

Is paved with toil and pain.

One fragment of His blessed Word,

Into thy spirit burned,

Is better than the whole half-heard

And by thine interest turned.

Show thou thy light. If conscience gleam,

Set not thy bushel down;

The smallest spark may send his beam

O'er hamlet, tower, and town.

Woe, woe to him, on safety bent,

Who creeps to age from youth,

Failing to grasp his life's intent

Because he fears the truth.

Be true to every inmost thought,

And as thy thought, thy speech:

What thou hast not by suffering bought,

Presume thou not to teach.

Hold on, hold on—thou hast the rock,

The foes are on the sand:

The first world tempest's ruthless shock

Scatters their drifting strand:

While each wild gust the mist shall clear

We now see darkly through,

And justified at last appear

The true, in Him that's True.

—Henry Alford.

———

COURAGE DEFINED

The brave man is not he who feels no fear,

For that were stupid and irrational;

But he whose noble soul its fear subdues,

And bravely dares the danger nature shrinks from.

As for your youth whom blood and blows delight,

Away with them! there is not in their crew

One valiant spirit.

—Joanna Baillie.

———

DEMAND FOR COURAGE

Thy life's a warfare, thou a soldier art;

Satan's thy foeman, and a faithful heart

Thy two-edged weapon; patience is thy shield,

Heaven is thy chieftain, and the world thy field.

To be afraid to die, or wish for death,

Are words and passions of despairing breath.

Who doth the first the day doth faintly yield;

And who the second basely flies the field.

—Francis Quarles.

———

When falls the hour of evil chance—

And hours of evil chance will fall—

Strike, though with but a broken lance!

Strike, though you have no lance at all!

Shrink not, however great the odds;

Shrink not, however dark the hour—

The barest possibility of good

Demands your utmost power.

———

They are slaves who fear to speak

For the fallen and the weak;

They are slaves who will not choose

Hatred, scoffing and abuse,

Rather than in silence shrink

From the truth they needs must think;

They are slaves who dare not be

In the right with two or three.

—James Russell Lowell.

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———

TRUST IN GOD AND DO THE RIGHT

Courage, brother, do not stumble,

Though thy path be dark as night;

There's a star to guide the humble—

Trust in God and do the right.

Though the road be long and dreary,

And the end be out of sight;

Foot it bravely, strong or weary—

Trust in God and do the right.

Perish "policy" and cunning,

Perish all that fears the light;

Whether losing, whether winning,

Trust in God and do the right.

Shun all forms of guilty passion,

Fiends can look like angels bright;

Heed no custom, school, or fashion—

Trust in God and do the right.

Some will hate thee, some will love thee,

Some will flatter, some will slight;

Cease from man and look above thee,

Trust in God and do the right.

Simple rule and safest guiding—

Inward peace and shining light—

Star upon our path abiding—

Trust in God and do the Right.

—Norman Macleod.

———

THE PRESENT CRISIS

We are living, we are dwelling, in a grand and awful time.

In an age on ages telling to be living is sublime.

Hark! the waking up of nations; Gog and Magog to the fray.

Hark! what soundeth? 'Tis creation groaning for its latter day.

Will ye play, then, will ye dally, with your music and your wine?

Up! it is Jehovah's rally; God's own arm hath need of thine;

Hark! the onset! will ye fold your faith-clad arms in lazy lock?

Up! O up, thou drowsy soldier! Worlds are charging to the shock.

Worlds are charging—heaven beholding; thou hast but an hour to fight;

Now the blazoned cross unfolding, on, right onward for the right!

On! let all the soul within you for the truth's sake go abroad!

Strike! let every nerve and sinew tell on ages; tell for God!

—Arthur Cleveland Coxe.

———

BRAVERY

We will speak on; we will be heard;

Though all earth's systems crack,

We will not bate a single word,

Nor take a letter back.

We speak the truth; and what care we

For hissing and for scorn

While some faint gleaming we can see

Of Freedom's coming morn!

Let liars fear; let cowards shrink;

Let traitors turn away;

Whatever we have dared to think,

That dare we also say.

—James Russell Lowell.

———

NO ENEMIES

He has no enemies, you say?

My friend, your boast is poor;

He who hath mingled in the fray

Of duty, that the brave endure,

Must have made foes. If he has none

Small is the work that he has done.

He has hit no traitor on the hip;

He has cast no cup from tempted lip;

He has never turned the wrong to right;

He has been a coward in the fight.

———

One deed may mar a life,

And one can make it.

Hold firm thy will for strife,

Lest a quick blow break it!

Even now from far, on viewless wing,

Hither speeds the nameless thing

Shall put thy spirit to the test.

Haply or e'er yon sinking sun

Shall drop behind the purple West

All shall be lost—or won!

—Richard Watson Gilder.

———

In spite of sorrow, loss, and pain,

Our course be onward still;

We sow on Burmah's barren plain,

We reap on Zion's hill.

—Adoniram Judson.

———

I find no foeman in the road but Fear.

To doubt is failure and to dare success.

—Frederic Lawrence Knowles.

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