—John Hay.

THE HIGHER LAW

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

—Christopher Pearse Cranch.

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

—Robert Browning.

I RESOLVE

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

—Charlotte Perkins Stetson.

IN MYSELF

I do not ask for any crown But that which all may win; Nor try to conquer any world Except the one within. Be thou my guide until I find Led by a tender hand, The happy kingdom in myself And dare to take command.

—Louisa May Alcott.

HIDE NOT THY HEART

This is my creed, This is my deed: "Hide not thy heart!" Soon we depart; Mortals are all; A breath, then the pall; A flash on the dark— All's done—stiff and stark. No time for a lie; The truth, and then die. Hide not thy heart!

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

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

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

—Richard Watson Gilder.

A GENTLEMAN

(Psa. XV.)

'Tis he whose every thought and deed By rule of virtue moves; Whose generous tongue disdains to speak The thing his heart disproves.

Who never did a slander forge His neighbor's fame to wound; Nor hearken to a false report By malice whispered round.

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

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

Whose soul in usury disdains His treasure to employ; Whom no reward can ever bribe The guiltless to destroy.

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

BE TRUE THYSELF

Thou must be true thyself If thou the truth wouldst teach; Thy soul must overflow if thou Another's soul wouldst reach. It needs the overflow of heart To give the lips full speech.

Think truly, and thy thoughts Shall the world's famine feed; Speak truly, and each word of thine Shall be a fruitful seed; Live truly, and thy life shall be A great and noble creed.

—Horatius Bonar.

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

—Richard Watson Gilder.

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

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

—John Keble.

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

—James Russell Lowell.

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

—From the Persian.

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

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

And some innative weakness there must be In him that condescends to victory Such as the present gives, and cannot wait— Safe in himself as in a fate.

—James Russell Lowell.

To be the thing we seem, To do the thing we deem Enjoined by duty; To walk in faith, nor dream Of questioning God's scheme Of truth and beauty.

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

—Alfred Tennyson.

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

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

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

If thou hast something, bring thy goods; A fair exchange be thine! If thou art something, bring thy soul, And interchange with mine.

—Schiller, tr. by Edward Bulwer Lytton.

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

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

—William Shakespeare.

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

—John Vance Cheney.

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

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

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

—Alfred Tennyson.



GREATNESS

FAME, SUCCESS, PROGRESS, VICTORY

A GREAT MAN

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

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

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

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

Who holds by everlasting law Which neither chance nor change can flaw, Whose steadfast course is one With whatsoever forces draw The ages on;

Who hath not bowed his honest head To base Occasion; nor, in dread Of Duty, shunned her eye; Nor truckled to loud times; nor wed His heart to a lie;

Nor feared to follow, in the offense Of false opinion, his own sense Of justice unsubdued; Nor shrunk from any consequence Of doing good;

He looks his Angel in the face Without a blush; nor heeds disgrace Whom naught disgraceful done Disgraces. Who knows nothing base Fears nothing known.

Not morseled out from day to day In feverish wishes, nor the prey Of hours that have no plan, His life is whole, to give away To God and man.

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

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

In cloisters cold; the prisoner lean In lightless den, the robed queen; Even the youth who waits, Hiding the knife, to glide unseen Between the gates—

He nothing human alien deems Unto himself, nor disesteems Man's meanest claim upon him. And where he walks the mere sunbeams Drop blessings on him.

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

—Edward Bulwer Lytton.

FAME AND DUTY

What shall I do lest life in silence pass? "And if it do, And never prompt the bray of noisy brass, What need'st thou rue? Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute— The shallows roar; Worth is the ocean—fame is but the bruit Along the shore."

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

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

—Johann C. F. Schiller.

NOBLE LIVES

There are hearts which never falter In the battle for the right; There are ranks which never alter Watching through the darkest night; And the agony of sharing In the fiercest of the strife Only gives a nobler daring, Only makes a grander life.

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

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

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

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

THE HIGHER LIFE

To play through life a perfect part, Unnoticed and unknown; To seek no rest in any heart Save only God alone; In little things to own no will. To have no share in great; To find the labor ready still And for the crown to wait.

Upon the brow to bear no trace Of more than common care; To write no secret in the face For men to read it there; The daily cross to clasp and bless With such familiar zeal As hides from all that not the less The daily weight you feel;

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

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

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

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

NOBILITY OF GOODNESS

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

—Charles Kingsley.

THE GLORY OF FAILURE

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

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

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

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

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

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

—Alice Van Vliet.

He is brave whose tongue is silent Of the trophies of his word. He is great whose quiet bearing Marks his greatness well assured.

—Edwin Arnold.

THE LOSING SIDE

Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and shield, Scattered in sad confusion over the trampled field; And the band of broken soldiers, with a weary, hopeless air, With heads in silence drooping, and eyes of grim despair. Like foam-flakes left on the drifting sand In the track of a falling tide, On the ground where their cause has failed they stand, The last of the losing side.

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

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

—Arthur E. J. Legge.

IO VICTIS

I sing the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the battle of life, The hymn of the wounded and beaten, who died overwhelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resounding acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame, But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary and broken in heart, Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part; Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away, From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone, With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.

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

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

—William M. Story.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

—Alfred Tennyson.

THE TRUE KING

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

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

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

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

—Seneca, tr. by Leigh Hunt.

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

—Ernest Neal Lyon.

The common problem, yours, mine, every one's, Is, not to fancy what were fair in life Provided it could be, but, finding first What may be, then find out how to make it fair Up to our means; a very different thing.

—Robert Browning.

BETTER THAN GOLD

Better than grandeur, better than gold, Than rank and titles a thousandfold, Is a healthy body, a mind at ease, And simple pleasures that always please; A heart that can feel for another's woe, That has learned with love's deep fires to glow, With sympathy large enough to enfold All men as brothers, is better than gold.

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

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

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

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

—Abram J. Ryan.

When success exalts thy lot God for thy virtue lays a plot.

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

MAXIMUS

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

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

It may be hard to gain, and still To keep a lowly, steadfast heart; Yet he who loses has to fill A harder and a truer part.

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

Great may he be who can command And rule with just and tender sway; Yet is Diviner wisdom taught Better by him who can obey.

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

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

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

—Alexander Pope.

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

—Alfred Tennyson.

THE GOOD, GREAT MAN

How seldom, friend, a good, great man inherits Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains! It seems a story from the world of spirits When any man obtains that which he merits, Or any merits that which he obtains.

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

—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE

The poem of the universe Nor rhythm has nor rhyme; For God recites the wondrous song A stanza at a time.

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

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

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

—Charles Weldon.

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

—John Greenleaf Whittier.

FAILURE AND SUCCESS

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

—Richard Watson Gilder.

WHAT DOES IT MATTER?

It matters little where I was born, Or if my parents were rich or poor; Whether they shrunk at the cold world's scorn, Or walked in the pride of wealth secure. But whether I live an honest man And hold my integrity firm in my clutch I tell you, brother, as plain as I can, It matters much.

It matters little how long I stay In a world of sorrow, sin, and care; Whether in youth I am called away Or live till my bones and pate are bare. But whether I do the best I can To soften the weight of Adversity's touch On the faded cheek of my fellow man, It matters much.

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

—Noah Barker.

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

—Robert Browning.

OBSCURE MARTYRS

"The world knows nothing of its greatest men."

They have no place in storied page; No rest in marble shrine; They are past and gone with a perished age, They died and "made no sign." But work that shall find its wages yet, And deeds that their God did not forget, Done for their love divine— These were their mourners, and these shall be The crowns of their immortality.

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

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

—Edwin Arnold.

THY BEST

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

—Henry Coyle.

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

—Robert Browning.

FAILURE

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

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

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

—Kate Tucker Goode.

THE BEGGAR'S REVENGE

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

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

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

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

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

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

—From the Persian.

A THOUGHT

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

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

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

—Abram J. Ryan.

HIS MONUMENT

He built a house, time laid it in the dust; He wrote a book, its title now forgot; He ruled a city, but his name is not On any tablet graven, or where rust Can gather from disuse, or marble bust.

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

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

It is not the wall of stone without That makes a building small or great, But the soul's light shining round about, And the faith that overcometh doubt, And the love that stronger is than hate.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE NOBLY BORN

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

The prince may sit with clown or churl Nor feel himself disgraced thereby; But he who has but small esteem Husbands that little carefully.

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

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

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

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

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

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

—James Russell Lowell.

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

—James Russell Lowell.

THE BURIAL OF MOSES

By Nebo's lonely mountain, On this side Jordan's wave, In a vale in the land of Moab, There lies a lonely grave. But no man dug that sepulchre, And no man saw it e'er; For the angels of God upturned the sod, And laid the dead man there.

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

Noiselessly as the springtime Her crest of verdure weaves, And all the trees on all the hills Open their thousand leaves— So, without sound of music, Or voice of them that wept, Silently down from the mountain crown The great procession swept.

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

But when the warrior dieth His comrades in the war, With arms reversed and muffled drums Follow the funeral car; They show the banners taken, They tell his battles won, And after him lead his matchless steed While peals the minute gun.

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

This was the bravest warrior That ever buckled sword; This the most gifted poet That ever breathed a word; And never earth's philosopher Traced, with his golden pen, On the deathless page, truths half so sage As he wrote down for men.

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

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

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

—Cecil Frances Alexander.

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

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

—Alexander Pope.

EMIR HASSAN

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

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

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

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

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

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

TRUE GREATNESS

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

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

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

—Charles Wesley.

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

—Jean Ingelow.

MENCIUS

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

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

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

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

—Annie M. L. Hawes.

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

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

It is enough— Enough—just to be good; To lift our hearts where they are understood; To let the thirst for worldly power and place Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss. Ah! though we miss All else but this, To be good is enough!

—James Whitcomb Riley.

He who ascends to mountain tops shall find Their loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow; He who surpasses or subdues mankind Must look down on the hate of those below. Though high above the sun of glory glow, And far beneath the earth and ocean spread, Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow Contending tempests on his naked head.

—George Gordon Byron.

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

—William Shakespeare.

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

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

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

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

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

—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.

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

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

—Alice Cary.

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

—James Russell Lowell.

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

—Rudyard Kipling.

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

—James Russell Lowell.

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

—Robert Browning.

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

—William Shakespeare.

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

—Adelaide Anne Procter.

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

—Edwin Markham.

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

—Alexander Pope.

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

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

He fought a thousand glorious wars, And more than half the world was his, And somewhere, now, in yonder stars, Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.

—William Makepeace Thackeray.

Howe'er it be, it seems to me 'Tis only noble to be good; Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

—Alfred Tennyson.

I've learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed, Not the applauding thunder at its heels Which men call fame.

—Alexander Smith.

It is worth while to live! Be of good cheer; Love casts out fear; Rise up, achieve.

—Christina G. Rossetti.

No endeavor is in vain; Its reward is in the doing, And the rapture of pursuing Is the prize the vanquished gain.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

Far better in its place the lowliest bird Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song, Than that a seraph strayed should take the word And sing His glory wrong.

—Jean Ingelow.

Often ornateness Goes with greatness. Oftener felicity Comes of simplicity.

—William Watson.

A jewel is a jewel still, though lying in the dust, And sand is sand, though up to heaven by the tempest thrust.

—From the Persian.

Vulgar souls surpass a rare one in the headlong rush; As the hard and worthless stones a precious pearl will crush.

—From the Persian.

Be noble! and the nobleness that lies In other men, sleeping, but never dead, Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.

—James Russell Lowell.

The mean of soul are sure their faults to gloss, And find a secret gain in others' loss.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

Ah, a man's reach should exceed his grasp, Or what's heaven for?

—Robert Browning.

Though thy name be spread abroad, Like winged seed, from shore to shore, What thou art before thy God, That thou art and nothing more.

My business is not to remake myself, But make the absolute best of what God made.

—Robert Browning.

For never land long lease of empire won Whose sons sat silent when base deeds were done.

—James Russell Lowell.

He that would free from malice pass his days Must live obscure and never merit praise.

—John Gay.

Wearing the white flower of a blameless life, Before a thousand peering littlenesses.

—Alfred Tennyson.

The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life, Try to be Shakespeare—leave the rest to fate.

—Robert Browning.

Unblemished let me live, or die unknown; O, grant an honest fame, or grant me none.

—Alexander Pope.

With fame in just proportion envy grows; The man that makes a character makes foes.

—Edward Young.

'Tis not what man does which exalts him, But what man would do.

—Robert Browning.

Better have failed in the high aim, as I, Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed.

—Robert Browning.

The simple, silent, selfless man Is worth a world of tonguesters.

—Alfred Tennyson.



DUTY

LOYALTY, FAITHFULNESS, CONSCIENCE, ZEAL

ODE TO DUTY

Stern daughter of the voice of God! O Duty! if that name thou love Who art a light to guide, a rod To check the erring and reprove; Thou who art victory and law When empty terrors overawe; From vain temptation dost set free; And calm'st the weary strife of frail humanity!

There are who ask not if thine eye Be on them; who, in love and truth, Where no misgiving is, rely Upon the genial sense of youth; Glad hearts, without reproach or blot, Who do thy work and know it not: Oh! if through confidence misplaced They fail, thy saving arms, dread Power, around them cast.

Serene will be our days, and bright And happy will our nature be, When love is an unerring light, And joy its own security; And they a blissful course may hold Even now, who, not unwisely bold, Live in the spirit of this creed; Yet seek thy firm support according to their need.

I, loving freedom, and untried, No sport of every random gust, Yet being to myself a guide, Too blindly have reposed my trust; And oft, when in my heart was heard Thy timely mandate, I deferred The task, in smoother walks to stray; But thee I now would serve more strictly, if I may.

Through no disturbance of my soul, Or strong compunction in me wrought, I supplicate for thy control, But in the quietness of thought. Me this unchartered freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires: My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Stern Lawgiver! Yet thou dost wear The Godhead's most benignant grace; Nor know we anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face: Flowers laugh before thee on their beds And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong; And the most ancient heavens, through Thee, are fresh and strong.

To humbler functions, awful Power! I call thee; I myself commend Unto thy guidance from this hour; Oh, let my weakness have an end! Give unto me, made lowly wise, The spirit of self-sacrifice; The confidence of reason give; And in the light of truth thy bondman let me live.

—William Wordsworth.

THE LADDER OF SAINT AUGUSTINE

Saint Augustine! well hast thou said, That of our vices we can frame A ladder, if we will but tread Beneath our feet each deed of shame!

All common things, each day's events, That with the hour begin and end, Our pleasures and our discontents, Are rounds by which we may ascend.

The longing for ignoble things; The strife for triumph more than truth; The hardening of the heart, that brings Irreverence for the dreams of youth;

All thoughts of ill, all evil deeds That have their root in thoughts of ill; Whatever hinders or impedes The action of the nobler will;—

All these must first be trampled down Beneath our feet, if we would gain In the bright fields of fair renown The right of eminent domain.

We have not wings, we cannot soar; But we have feet to scale and climb By slow degrees, by more and more, The cloudy summits of our time.

The heights by great men reached and kept Were not attained by sudden flight, But they while their companions slept Were toiling upward in the night.

Standing on what too long we bore With shoulders bent and downcast eyes, We may discern—unseen before— A path to higher destinies,

Nor deem the irrevocable Past As wholly wasted, wholly vain, If, rising on its wrecks, at last To something nobler we attain.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

REWARD OF FAITHFULNESS

The deeds which selfish hearts approve And fame's loud trumpet sings Secure no praise where truth and love Are counted noblest things; And work which godless folly deems Worthless, obscure, and lowly, To Heaven's ennobling vision seems Most godlike, grand, and holy.

Then murmur not if toils obscure And thorny paths be thine; To God be true—they shall secure The joy of life divine Who in the darkest, sternest sphere For Him their powers employ; The toils contemned and slighted here Shall yield the purest joy.

When endless day dispels the strife Which blinds and darkens now, Perchance the brightest crown of life Shall deck some lowly brow. Then learn, despite thy boding fears, From seed with sorrow sown, In love, obscurity and tears The richest sheaves are grown.

—Edward Hartley Dewart.

"DOE THE NEXTE THYNGE"

From an old English parsonage Down by the sea, There came in the twilight A message to me; Its quaint Saxon legend Deeply engraven, Hath as it seems to me Teaching for heaven; And on through the hours The quiet words ring, Like a low inspiration, "Doe the nexte thynge."

Many a questioning, Many a fear, Many a doubt, Hath guiding here. Moment by moment Let down from heaven, Time, opportunity, Guidance are given. Fear not to-morrow, Child of the King; Trust it with Jesus, "Doe the nexte thynge."

O He would have thee Daily more free, Knowing the might Of thy royal degree; Ever in waiting, Glad for his call, Tranquil in chastening, Trusting through all. Comings and goings No turmoil need bring: His all thy future— "Doe the nexte thynge."

Do it immediately, Do it with prayer, Do it reliantly, Casting all care: Do it with reverence, Tracing His hand Who hath placed it before thee With earnest command. Stayed on Omnipotence, Safe, 'neath his wing, Leave all resultings, "Doe the nexte thynge."

Looking to Jesus, Ever serener, Working or suffering, Be thy demeanor! In the shade of his presence, The rest of his calm, The light of his countenance, Live out thy psalm: Strong in his faithfulness. Praise him and sing, Then as he beckons thee, "Doe the nexte thynge."

ZEAL IN LABOR

Go, labor on; spend and be spent, Thy joy to do the Father's will; It is the way the Master went; Should not the servant tread it still?

Go, labor on; 'tis not for naught; Thine earthly loss is heavenly gain; Men heed thee, love thee, praise thee not; The Master praises—what are men?

Go, labor on; your hands are weak; Your knees are faint, your soul cast down; Yet falter not; the prize you seek Is near—a kingdom and a crown!

Toil on, faint not; keep watch, and pray! Be wise the erring soul to win; Go forth into the world's highway; Compel the wanderer to come in.

Toil on, and in thy toil rejoice: For toil comes rest, for exile home; Soon shalt thou hear the Bridegroom's voice, The midnight peal, "Behold, I come!"

—Horatius Bonar.

THE EVANGELIST

Walking with Peter, Christ his footsteps set On the lake shore, hard by Gennesaret, At the hour when noontide's burning rays down pour. When they beheld at a mean cabin's door, A fisher's widow in her mourning clad, Who, on the threshold seated, silent, sad, The tear that wet them kept her lids within, Her child to cradle and her flax to spin; Near by, behind the fig-trees' leafy screen, The Master and His friend could see, unseen.

An old man ready for his earthly bed, A beggar with a jar upon his head, Came by, and to the mourning spinner there Said, "Woman, I this vase of milk should bear Unto a dweller in the hamlet near; But I am weak and bent with many a year; More than a thousand paces yet to go Remain, and, without help, I surely know I cannot end my task and earn its fee."

The woman rose, and not a word said she, Without a pause her distaff laid aside, And left the cradle where the orphan cried, Took up the jar, and with the beggar went.

"Master, 'tis well to be benevolent," Said Peter, "but small sense that woman showed, In leaving thus her child and her abode For the chance-comer that first sought her out; The beggar some one would have found, no doubt, To ease him of his load upon the way."

The Lord made answer unto Peter, "Nay, Thy Father, when the poor assists the poorer, Will keep her cot, and her reward assure her. She went at once, and wisely did in that."

And Jesus, having finished speaking, sat Down on a bench was in the humble place, And with His blest hands for a moment's space, He touched the distaff, rocked the little one. Rose, signed to Peter, and they gat them gone.

When she to whom the Lord had given this proof Of good-will came back to her humble roof, She found, nor knew what Friend the deed had done, The baby sleeping and the flax all spun!

—Francois Coppee.

THE BEST THAT I CAN

"I cannot do much," said a little star, "To make the dark world bright; My silver beams cannot struggle far Through the folding gloom of night: But I am a part of God's great plan, And I'll cheerfully do the best that I can."

"What is the use," said a fleecy cloud, "Of these dew-drops that I hold? They will hardly bend the lily proud, Though caught in her cup of gold; Yet I am a part of God's great plan, My treasures I'll give as well as I can."

A child went merrily forth to play, But a thought, like a silver thread, Kept winding in and out all day Through the happy, busy head, "Mother said, 'Darling, do all you can, For you are a part of God's great plan.'"

So she helped a younger child along, When the road was rough to the feet; And she sang from her heart a little song, A song that was passing sweet; And her father, a weary, toil-worn man, Said, "I too will do the best that I can."

WORK LOYALLY

Just where you stand in the conflict, There is your place! Just where you think you are useless Hide not your face! God placed you there for a purpose, Whate'er it be; Think He has chosen you for it— Work loyally.

Gird on your armor! Be faithful At toil or rest, Whiche'er it be, never doubting God's way is best. Out in the fight, or on picket, Stand firm and true; This is the work which your Master Gives you to do.

Who does the best his circumstance allows, Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more.

—Edward Young.

LOYALTY

When courage fails and faith burns low, And men are timid grown, Hold fast thy loyalty and know That Truth still moveth on.

For unseen messengers she hath, To work her will and ways, And even human scorn and wrath God turneth to her praise.

She can both meek and lordly be, In heavenly might secure; With her is pledge of victory, And patience to endure.

The race is not unto the swift, The battle to the strong, When dawn her judgment-days that sift The claims of right and wrong.

And more than thou canst do for Truth Can she on thee confer, If thou, O heart, but give thy youth And manhood unto her.

For she can make thee inly bright, Thy self-love purge away, And lead thee in the path whose light Shines to the perfect day.

Who follow her, though men deride, In her strength shall be strong; Shall see their shame become their pride, And share her triumph song!

—Frederick Lucian Hosmer.

LIBERTY

I am Liberty—God's daughter! My symbols—a law and a torch; Not a sword to threaten slaughter, Nor a flame to dazzle or scorch; But a light that the world may see, And a truth that shall make men free.

I am the sister of Duty, And I am the sister of Faith; To-day adored for my beauty, To-morrow led forth for death. I am she whom ages prayed for; Heroes suffered undismayed for; Whom the martyrs were betrayed for.

—John Boyle O'Reilly.

THE NEAREST DUTY

My soul was stirred; I prayed, "Let me Do some great work, so purely, To right life's wrongs, that I shall know That I have loved Thee surely." My lips sent forth their eager cry, The while my heart beat faster, "For some great deed to prove my love Send me; send me, my Master!"

From out the silence came a voice, Saying: "If God thou fearest, Rise up and do, thy whole life through, The duty that lies nearest. The friendly word, the kindly deed, Though small the act in seeming, Shall in the end unto thy soul Prove mightier than thy dreaming.

The cup of water to the faint, Or rest unto the weary, The light thou giv'st another's life, Shall make thine own less dreary. And boundless realms of faith and love Will wait for thy possessing; Not creeds, but deeds, if thou wouldst win Unto thy soul a blessing."

And so I wait with peaceful heart, Content to do His pleasure; Not caring if the world shall mock At smallness of the measure Of thoughts or deeds or daily life. He knows the true endeavor— To do His will, to seek His face— And He will fail me never.

—Sarah A. Gibbs.

THE ONE TALENT

Hide not thy talent in the earth; However small it be, Its faithful use, its utmost worth, God will require of thee.

The humblest service rendered here He will as truly own As Paul's in his exalted sphere, Or Gabriel's near the throne.

The cup of water kindly given, The widow's cheerful mites, Are worthier in the eye of heaven Than pride's most costly rites.

His own, which He hath lent on trust, He asks of thee again; Little or much, the claim is just, And thine excuses vain.

Go, then, and strive to do thy part— Though humble it may be; The ready hand, the willing heart, Are all heaven asks of thee.

—William Cutler.

ONE TALENT

(Matt. XXV. 18)

In a napkin smooth and white, Hidden from all mortal sight, My one talent lies to-night.

Mine to hoard, or mine to use; Mine to keep, or mine to lose; May I not do what I choose?

Ah! the gift was only lent With the Giver's known intent That it should be wisely spent.

And I know he will demand Every farthing at my hand, When I in his presence stand.

What will be my grief and shame When I hear my humble name And cannot repay his claim!

One poor talent—nothing more! All the years that have gone o'er Have not added to the store.

Some will double what they hold, Others add to it tenfold And pay back the shining gold.

Would that I had toiled like them! All my sloth I now condemn; Guilty fears my soul o'erwhelm.

Lord, oh teach me what to do. Make me faithful, make me true, And the sacred trust renew.

Help me, ere too late it be, Something yet to do for Thee, Thou who hast done all for me.

Art thou little? Do thy little well; And for thy comfort know Great men can do their greatest work No better than just so.

—Johann W. von Goethe.

RESPONSIBILITY FOR TALENTS

Thou that in life's crowded city art arrived, thou knowest not how— By what path or on what errand—list and learn thine errand now.

From the palace to the city on the business of thy King Thou wert sent at early morning, to return at evening.

Dreamer, waken; loiterer, hasten; what thy task is understand: Thou art here to purchase substance, and the price is in thine hand.

Has the tumult of the market all thy sense confused and drowned? Do its glittering wares entice thee, or its shouts and cries confound?

Oh, beware lest thy Lord's business be forgotten, while thy gaze Is on every show and pageant which the giddy square displays.

Barter not his gold for pebbles; do not trade in vanities; Pearls there are of price and jewels for the purchase of the wise.

And know this—at thy returning thou wilt surely find the King With an open book before Him, waiting to make reckoning.

Thus large honors will the faithful, earnest service of one day Reap of Him; but one day's folly largest penalties will pay.

—Richard Chenevix Trench.

Not once or twice in our fair island-story The path of duty was the way to glory. He, that ever following her commands, On with toil of heart and knees and hands, Thro' the long gorge to the far light has won His path upward, and prevailed, Shall find the toppling crags of Duty scaled Are close upon the shining table-lands To which our God himself is moon and sun.

—Alfred Tennyson.

GO RIGHT ON WORKING

Ah, yes! the task is hard, 'tis true, But what's the use of sighing? They're soonest with their duties through Who bravely keep on trying. There's no advantage to be found In sorrowing or shirking; They with success are soonest crowned Who just go right on working.

Strive patiently and with a will That shall not be defeated; Keep singing at your task until You see it stand completed. Nor let the clouds of doubt draw near, Your sky's glad sunshine murking; Be brave, and fill your heart with cheer, And just go right on working.

—Nixon Waterman.

JUSTICE ONLY

Be not too proud of good deeds wrought! When thou art come from prayer, speak truly! Even if he wrongeth thee in aught, Respect thy Guru. Give alms duly.

But let none wist! Live, day by day, With little and with little swelling Thy tale of duty done—the way The wise ant-people build their dwelling;

Not harming any living thing; That thou may'st have—at time of dying— A Hand to hold thee, and to bring Thy footsteps safe; and, so relying,

Pass to the farther world. For none Save Justice leads there! Father, mother, Will not be nigh; nor wife, nor son, Nor friends, nor kin; nor any other

Save only Justice! All alone Each entereth here, and each one leaveth This life alone; and every one The fruit of all his deeds receiveth

Alone—alone; bad deeds and good! That day when kinsmen, sadly turning, Forsake thee, like the clay or wood, A thing committed to the burning.

But Justice shall not quit thee then, If thou hast served her, therefore never Cease serving; that shall hold thee when The darkness falls which falls forever,

Which hath no star, nor way and guide. But Justice knows the road; and midnight Is noon to her. Man at her side Goes, through the gloom, safe to the hid light.

And he who loved her more than all, Who purged by sorrow his offenses, Shall shine, in realms celestial, With glory, quit of sins and senses.

—Edwin Arnold, from the Sanskrit.

GOD'S VENGEANCE

Saith the Lord, "Vengeance is mine;" "I will repay," saith the Lord; Ours be the anger divine, Lit by the flash of his word.

How shall his vengeance be done? How, when his purpose is clear? Must he come down from the throne? Hath he no instruments here?

Sleep not in imbecile trust, Waiting for God to begin; While, growing strong in the dust, Rests the bruised serpent of sin.

Right and Wrong—both cannot live Death-grappled. Which shall we see? Strike! Only Justice can give Safety to all that shall be.

Shame! to stand faltering thus, Tricked by the balancing odds; Strike! God is waiting for us! Strike! for the vengeance is God's!

—John Hay.

Bear a lily in thy hand; Gates of brass cannot withstand One touch of that magic wand.

Bear through sorrow, wrong, and ruth, In thy heart the dew of youth, On thy lips the smile of truth.

—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

A SINGLE STITCH

One stitch dropped as the weaver drove His nimble shuttle to and fro, In and out, beneath, above, Till the pattern seemed to bud and grow As if the fairies had helping been; One small stitch which could scarce be seen, But the one stitch dropped pulled the next stitch out, And a weak place grew in the fabric stout; And the perfect pattern was marred for aye By the one small stitch that was dropped that day.

One small life in God's great plan, How futile it seems as the ages roll, Do what it may or strive how it can To alter the sweep of the infinite whole! A single stitch in an endless web, A drop in the ocean's flood and ebb! But the pattern is rent where the stitch is lost, Or marred where the tangled threads have crossed; And each life that fails of its true intent Mars the perfect plan that its Master meant.

—Susan Coolidge.

THE BLESSINGS

An angel came from the courts of gold, With gifts and tidings manifold; With blessings many to crown the one Whose work of life was the noblest done.

He came to a rich man's gilded door; Where a beautiful lady stood before His vision, fair as the saints are fair, With smile as sweet as the seraphs wear.

He needed not to be told her life— The pure young mother, the tender wife; He needed not to be told that she, In home of sorrow and poverty,

Was giving wealth with a lavish hand; He thought her worthy in heaven to stand. "No! no!" a voice to the angel heart Spoke low: "Seek on in the busy mart."

He found a door that was worn and old; The night was damp and the wind was cold. A pale-faced girl at her sewing bent; The midnight lamp to her features lent

A paler look as she toiled the while, But yet the mouth had a restful smile. Doing her duty with honest pride; Breasting temptation on every side.

"For her the blessings," the angel said, And touched with pity the girlish head. "No time nor money for alms has she, But duty is higher than charity."

—Sarah Knowles Bolton.

DUTIES

I reach a duty, yet I do it not, And therefore see no higher; but, if done, My view is brightened and another spot Seen on my moral sun.

For, be the duty high as angels' flight, Fulfill it, and a higher will arise E'en from its ashes. Duty is infinite— Receding as the skies.

And thus it is the purest most deplore Their want of purity. As fold by fold, In duties done, falls from their eyes, the more Of duty they behold.

Were it not wisdom, then, to close our eyes On duties crowding only to appal? No; duty is our ladder to the skies, And, climbing not, we fall.

—Robert Leighton (1611-1684).

WHAT SHE COULD

"And do the hours step fast or slow? And are ye sad or gay? And is your heart with your liege lord, lady, Or is it far away?"

The lady raised her calm, proud head, Though her tears fell, one by one: "Life counts not hours by joy or pangs, But just by duties done.

"And when I lie in the green kirkyard, With the mould upon my breast, Say not that 'She did well—or ill,' Only, 'She did her best.'"

—Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

UNWASTED DAYS

The longer on this earth we live And weigh the various qualities of men, Seeing how most are fugitive Or fitful gifts at best, of now and then— Wind-favored corpse-lights, daughters of the fen— The more we feel the high, stern-featured beauty Of plain devotedness to duty, Steadfast and still, nor paid with mortal praise, But finding amplest recompense For life's ungarlanded expense In work done squarely and unwasted days.

—James Russell Lowell.

TRIFLES THAT MAKE SAINTS

A tone of pride or petulance repressed A selfish inclination firmly fought, A shadow of annoyance set at naught, A measure of disquietude suppressed; A peace in importunity possessed, A reconcilement generously sought, A purpose put aside, a banished thought, A word of self-explaining unexpressed: Trifles they seem, these petty soul-restraints, Yet he who proves them so must needs possess A constancy and courage grand and bold; They are the trifles that have made the saints. Give me to practice them in humbleness And nobler power than mine doth no man hold.

The world is full of beauty, As other worlds above; And if we did our duty It might be full of love.

—Gerald Massey.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted? Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; And he but naked, though locked up in steel, Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.

—William Shakespeare.

I slept, and dreamed that life was Beauty; I woke, and found that life was Duty. Was thy dream then, a shadowy lie? Toil on, sad heart, courageously, And thou shalt find that dream to be A noonday light and truth to thee.

—Ellen Sturgis Hooper.

Do thy duty; that is best; Leave unto thy Lord the rest.

—James Russell Lowell.

While I sought Happiness she fled Before me constantly. Weary, I turned to Duty's path, And Happiness sought me, Saying, "I walk this road to-day, I'll bear thee company."

So nigh is grandeur to our dust, So near is God to man, When Duty whispers low, "Thou must," The youth replies, "I can."

—Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Faithfully faithful to every trust, Honestly honest in every deed, Righteously righteous and justly just; This is the whole of the good man's creed.

Find out what God would have you do, And do that little well; For what is great and what is small 'Tis only he can tell.



SERVICE

USEFULNESS, BENEVOLENCE, LABOR

WAKING

I have done at length with dreaming; Henceforth, O thou soul of mine! Thou must take up sword and buckler, Waging warfare most divine.

Life is struggle, combat, victory! Wherefore have I slumbered on With my forces all unmarshaled, With my weapons all undrawn?

O how many a glorious record Had the angels of me kept Had I done instead of doubted, Had I warred instead of wept!

But begone, regret, bewailing! Ye had weakened at the best; I have tried the trusty weapons Resting erst within my breast.

I have wakened to my duty, To a knowledge strong and deep, That I recked not of aforetime, In my long inglorious sleep.

For the end of life is service, And I felt it not before, And I dreamed not how stupendous Was the meaning that it bore.

In this subtle sense of being, Newly stirred in every vein, I can feel a throb electric— Pleasure half allied with pain.

'Tis so sweet, and yet so awful, So bewildering, yet brave, To be king in every conflict Where before I crouched a slave!

'Tis so glorious to be conscious Of a growing power within Stronger than the rallying forces Of a charged and marshaled sin!

Never in those old romances Felt I half the thrill of life That I feel within me stirring, Standing in this place of strife.

O those olden days of dalliance, When I wantoned with my fate; When I trifled with the knowledge That had well-nigh come too late.

Yet, my soul, look not behind thee; Thou hast work to do at last; Let the brave toil of the present Overarch the crumbling past.

Build thy great acts high and higher; Build them on the conquered sod Where thy weakness first fell bleeding, And thy first prayer rose to God.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

SMALL BEGINNINGS

A traveler through a dusty road strewed acorns on the lea; And one took root and sprouted up, and grew into a tree. Love sought its shade, at evening time, to breathe its early vows; And age was pleased, in heat of noon, to bask beneath its boughs; The dormouse loved its dangling twigs the birds sweet music bore; It stood a glory in its place, a blessing evermore.

A little spring had lost its way amid the grass and fern, A passing stranger scooped a well where weary men might turn; He walled it in, and hung with care a ladle at the brink; He thought not of the deed he did, but judged that toil might drink. He passed again, and lo! the well, by summers never dried, Had cooled ten thousand parching tongues, and saved a life beside.

A dreamer dropped a random thought; 'twas old, and yet 'twas new; A simple fancy of the brain, but strong in being true. It shone upon a genial mind, and lo! its light became A lamp of life, a beacon ray, a monitory flame. The thought was small; its issue great; a watchfire on the hill, It shed its radiance far adown, and cheers the valley still!

A nameless man, amid the crowd that thronged the daily mart, Let fall a word of Hope and Love, unstudied, from the heart; A whisper on the tumult thrown—a transitory breath— It raised a brother from the dust; it saved a soul from death. O germ! O fount! O word of love! O thought at random cast! Ye were but little at the first, but mighty at the last!

—Charles Mackay.

THE CHOIR INVISIBLE

O may I join the choir invisible Of those immortal dead who live again In minds made better by their presence; live In pulses stirred to generosity, In deeds of daring rectitude, in scorn For miserable aims that end with self, In thoughts sublime that pierce the night like stars, And with their mild persistence urge man's search To vaster issues. So to live is heaven: To make undying music in the world, Breathing as beauteous order that controls With growing sway the growing life of man. So we inherit that sweet purity For which we struggled, failed and agonized, With widening retrospect that bred despair. Rebellious flesh that would not be subdued, A vicious parent shaming still its child Poor, anxious penitence, is quick dissolved; Its discords, quenched by meeting harmonies, Die in the large and charitable air. And all our rarer, better, truer, self, That sobbed religiously in yearning song, That watched to ease the burden of the world, Laboriously tracing what must be, And what may yet be better—saw within A worthier image for the sanctuary, And shaped it forth before the multitude Divinely human, raising worship so To higher reverence more mixed with love— That better self shall live till human Time Shall fold its eyelids, and the human sky Be gathered like a scroll within the tomb, Unread forever. This is life to come, Which martyred men have made more glorious For us who strive to follow. May I reach That purest heaven, be to other souls The cup of strength in some great agony, Enkindle generous ardor, feed pure love, Beget the smiles that have no cruelty— Be the sweet presence of a good diffused, And in diffusion ever more intense. So shall I join the choir invisible Whose music is the gladness of the world.

—George Eliot.

MY TASK

To love some one more dearly ev'ry day, To help a wandering child to find his way, To ponder o'er a noble thought, and pray, And smile when evening falls.

To follow truth as blind men long for light, To do my best from dawn of day till night, To keep my heart fit for His holy sight, And answer when He calls.

—Maude Louise Ray.

"IT IS MORE BLESSED"

Give! as the morning that flows out of heaven; Give! as the waves when their channel is riven; Give! as the free air and sunshine are given; Lavishly, utterly, joyfully give! Not the waste drops of thy cup overflowing; Not the faint sparks of thy hearth ever glowing; Not a pale bud from the June roses blowing: Give as He gave thee who gave thee to live.

Pour out thy love like the rush of a river, Wasting its waters, forever and ever, Through the burnt sands that reward not the giver: Silent or songful, thou nearest the sea. Scatter thy life as the summer's shower pouring; What if no bird through the pearl rain is soaring? What if no blossom looks upward adoring? Look to the life that was lavished for thee!

So the wild wind strews its perfumed caresses: Evil and thankless the desert it blesses; Bitter the wave that its soft pinion presses; Never it ceaseth to whisper and sing. What if the hard heart give thorns for thy roses? What if on rocks thy tired bosom reposes? Sweeter is music with minor-keyed closes, Fairest the vines that on ruin will cling.

Almost the day of thy giving is over; Ere from the grass dies the bee-haunted clover Thou wilt have vanished from friend and from lover: What shall thy longing avail in the grave? Give as the heart gives whose fetters are breaking— Life, love, and hope, all thy dreams and thy waking; Soon, heaven's river thy soul-fever slaking, Thou shalt know God and the gift that he gave.

—Rose Terry Cooke.

ALONG THE WAY

There are so many helpful things to do Along life's way (Helps to the helper, if we did but know), From day to day. So many troubled hearts to soothe, So many pathways rough to smooth, So many comforting words to say, To the hearts that falter along the way.

Here is a lamp of hope gone out Along the way. Some one stumbled and fell, no doubt— But, brother, stay! Out of thy store of oil refill; Kindle the courage that smoulders still; Think what Jesus would do to-day For one who had fallen beside the way.

How many lifted hands still plead Along life's way! The old, sad story of human need Reads on for aye. But let us follow the Saviour's plan— Love unstinted to every man; Content if, at most, the world should say: "He helped his brother along the way!"

SAVED TO SERVE

Is thy cruse of comfort failing? Rise and share it with another, And through all the years of famine It shall serve thee and thy brother.

Love divine will fill thy storehouse Or thy handful still renew; Scanty fare for one will often Make a royal feast for two.

For the heart grows rich in giving— All its wealth is living gain; Seeds which mildew in the garner Scattered fill with gold the plain.

Is thy burden hard and heavy? Do thy steps drag wearily? Help to bear thy brother's burden; God will bear both it and thee.

Numb and weary on the mountains, Wouldst thou sleep amidst the snow? Chafe that frozen form beside thee, And together both shall glow.

Art thou stricken in life's battle? Many wounded round thee moan: Lavish on their wounds thy balsam, And that balm shall heal thine own.

Is thy heart a well left empty? None but God the void can fill. Nothing but the ceaseless Fountain Can its ceaseless longings still.

Is the heart a living power? Self-entwined its strength sinks low. It can only live in loving, And by serving love will grow.

BY DOING GOOD WE LIVE

A certain wise man, deeply versed In all the learning of the East, Grew tired in spirit, and athirst From life to be released.

So to Eliab, holy man Of God he came: "Ah, give me, friend, The herb of death, that now the span Of my vain life may end."

Eliab gently answered: "Ere The soul may free itself indeed, This herb of healing thou must bear To seven men in need;

"When thou hast lightened each man's grief, And brought him hope and joy again, Return; nor shalt thou seek relief At Allah's hands in vain."

The wise man sighed, and humbly said: "As Allah willeth, so is best." And with the healing herb he sped Away upon his quest.

And as he journeyed on, intent To serve the sorrowing in the land On deeds of love and mercy bent, The herb bloomed in his hand,

And through his pulses shot a fire Of strength and hope and happiness; His heart leaped with a glad desire To live and serve and bless.

Lord of all earthly woe and need, Be this, life's flower, mine! To love, to comfort, and to heal— Therein is life divine!

—Josephine Troup.

FOR STRENGTH WE ASK

For strength we ask For the ten thousand times repeated task, The endless smallnesses of every day.

No, not to lay My life down in the cause I cherish most, That were too easy. But, whate'er it cost,

To fail no more In gentleness toward the ungentle, nor In love toward the unlovely, and to give,

Each day I live, To every hour with outstretched hand, its meed Of not-to-be-regretted thought and deed.

—Agnes Ethelwyn Wetherald.

MARTHA OR MARY?

I cannot choose; I should have liked so much To sit at Jesus' feet—to feel the touch Of his kind gentle hand upon my head While drinking in the gracious words he said.

And yet to serve Him!—Oh, divine employ— To minister and give the Master joy; To bathe in coolest springs his weary feet, And wait upon Him while He sat at meat!

Worship or service—which? Ah, that is best To which he calls us, be it toil or rest; To labor for Him in life's busy stir, Or seek His feet, a silent worshiper.

—Caroline Atherton Mason.

This is the gospel of labor—ring it, ye bells of the kirk— The Lord of Love came down from above to live with the men who work. This is the rose that he planted, here in the thorn-cursed soil; Heaven is blest with perfect rest, but the blessing of earth is toil.

—Henry van Dyke.

MARTHA

Yes, Lord, Yet some must serve! Not all with tranquil heart, Even at Thy dear feet, Wrapped in devotion sweet, May sit apart!

Yes, Lord! Yet some must bear The burden of the day, Its labor and its heat, While others at Thy feet May muse and pray.

Yes, Lord! Yet some must do Life's daily task-work; some Who fain would sing must toil Amid earth's dust and moil, While lips are dumb!

Yes, Lord! Yet man must earn And woman bake the bread; And some must watch and wake Early for others' sake, Who pray instead!

Yes, Lord! Yet even thou Hast need of earthly care; I bring the bread and wine To Thee a Guest divine— Be this my prayer!

—Julia Caroline Ripley Dorr.

If we sit down at set of sun And count the things that we have done, And counting, find One self-denying act, one word That eased the heart of him who heard, One glance most kind, That fell like sunshine where it went, Then we may count the day well spent.

But if through all the livelong day We've eased no heart by yea or nay; If through it all We've nothing done that we can trace That brought the sunshine to a face, No act most small That helped some soul, and nothing cost, Then count that day as worse than lost.

This for the day of life I ask: Some all-absorbing, useful task; And when 'tis wholly, truly done, A tranquil rest at set of sun.

SERVICE

Ah! grand is the world's work, and noble, forsooth, The doing one's part, be it ever so small! You, reaping with Boaz, I, gleaning with Ruth, Are honored by serving, yet servants of all.

No drudge in his corner but speeds the world's wheels; No serf in the field but is sowing God's seed— More noble, I think, in the dust though he kneels, Than the pauper of wealth, who makes scorn of the deed.

Is toil but a treadmill? Think not of the grind, But think of the grist, what is done and to do, The world growing better, more like to God's mind, By long, faithful labor of helpers like you.

The broom or the spade or the shuttle, that plies Its own honest task in its own honest way, Serves heaven not less than a star in the skies— What more could the Pleiades do than obey?

—James Buckham.

SUMMER AND WINTER

If no kindly thought or word We can give, some soul to bless, If our hands, from hour to hour, Do no deeds of gentleness; If to lone and weary ones We no comfort will impart— Tho' 'tis summer in the sky, Yet 'tis winter in the heart!

If we strive to lift the gloom From a dark and burdened life; If we seek to lull the storm Of our fallen brother's strife; If we bid all hate and scorn From the spirit to depart— Tho' 'tis winter in the sky, Yet 'tis summer in the heart!

THE ELEVENTH-HOUR LABORER

Idlers all day about the market-place They name us, and our dumb lips answer not, Bearing the bitter while our sloth's disgrace, And our dark tasking whereof none may wot.

Oh, the fair slopes where the grape-gatherers go!— Not they the day's fierce heat and burden bear, But we who on the market-stones drop slow Our barren tears, while all the bright hours wear.

Lord of the vineyard, whose dear word declares Our one hour's labor as the day's shall be, What coin divine can make our wage as theirs Who had the morning joy of work for Thee?

—L. Gray Noble.

"THY LABOR IS NOT IN VAIN"

"I have labored in vain," a preacher said, And his brow was marked with care; "I have labored in vain." He bowed down his head, And bitter and sad were the tears he shed In that moment of dark despair.

"I am weary and worn, and my hands are weak, And my courage is well-nigh gone; For none give heed to the words I speak, And in vain for a promise of fruit I seek Where the seed of the Word is sown."

And again with a sorrowful heart he wept, For his spirit with grief was stirred, Till the night grew dark, and at last he slept, And a silent calm o'er his spirit crept, And a whisper of "peace" was heard.

And he thought in his dream that his soul took flight To a blessed and bright abode; He saw a throne of dazzling light, And harps were ringing, and robes were white— Made white in a Saviour's blood.

And he saw such a countless throng around As he never had seen before, Their brows with jewels of light were crowned, And sorrow and sighing no place had found— The troubles of time were o'er.

Then a white-robed maiden came forth and said, "Joy! Joy! for the trials are passed! I am one that thy gentle words have led In the narrow pathway of life to tread— I welcome thee home at last!"

And the preacher gazed on the maiden's face— He had seen that face on earth, Where, with anxious heart, in his wonted place He had told his charge of a Saviour's grace, And their need of a second birth.

Then the preacher smiled, and the angel said, "Go forth to thy work again; It is not in vain that the seed is shed— If only ONE soul to the cross is led, Thy labor is not in vain."

And at last he woke, and his knee he bent In grateful, childlike prayer, And he prayed till an answer of peace was sent, And Faith and Hope as a rainbow bent O'er the clouds of his earthly care.

And he rose in joy, and his eye was bright. His sorrow and grief had fled, And his soul was calm and his heart was light, For his hands were strong in his Saviour's might As forth to his work he sped.

Whatever dies, or is forgot— Work done for God, it dieth not.

FOLLOWING THE MASTER

I asked the Lord that I might worthier be, Might grow in faith and hope and charity; And straight, "Go feed my lambs!" he answered me.

"Nay, Lord!" I cried. "Can outward deeds avail To cleanse my spirit? Heart and courage fail And sins prevent, and foes and fears assail."

And still, "Go, feed my lambs!" was all I heard. But should I rest upon that simple word? Was that, indeed, my message from my Lord?

Behold, I thought that he his hand would lay On my sick soul, and words of healing say, And charm the plague-spot from my heart away.

Half wroth, I turned to go; but oh! the look He on me cast—a gaze I could not brook; With deep relentings all my spirit shook.

"O dearest Lord," I cried, "I will obey, Say what thou wilt! only lead thou the way; For, following thee, my footsteps shall not stray."

He took me at my word. He went before; He led me to the dwellings of the poor, Where wolf-eyed Want keeps watch beside the door.

He beckoned me, and I essayed to go Where Sin and Crime, more sad than Want and Woe, Hold carnival, and Vice walks to and fro.

And when I faltered at the sight, He said, "Behold, I died for such! These hands have bled, This side for such has pierced been," he said.

"Is the disciple greater than his Lord? The servant than his Master?" Oh, that word! It smote me like a sharp, two-edged sword!

And since that hour, if any work of mine Has been accepted by my Lord as sign That I was following in his steps divine;

If, serving others (though imperfectly), My own poor life has worthier come to be, And I have grown in faith and charity,

Dear Lord, be thine the glory! Thou hast wrought, All unaware, the blessing that I sought. O that these lips might praise thee as they ought!

BE ALWAYS GIVING

The sun gives ever; so the earth— What it can give so much 'tis worth; The ocean gives in many ways— Gives baths, gives fishes, rivers, bays; So, too, the air, it gives us breath. When it stops giving, comes in death. Give, give, be always giving; Who gives not is not living; The more you give The more you live.

God's love hath in us wealth unheaped Only by giving it is reaped; The body withers, and the mind Is pent up by a selfish rind. Give strength, give thought, give deeds, give pelf, Give love, give tears, and give thyself. Give, give, be always giving, Who gives not is not living; The more we give The more we live.

Slightest actions often meet the sorest needs, For the world wants daily little kindly deeds; O, what care and sorrow you may help remove With your song and courage, sympathy and love.

NOT LOST

The look of sympathy; the gentle word Spoken so low that only angels heard; The secret act of pure self-sacrifice, Unseen by men, but marked by angels' eyes; These are not lost.

The silent tears that fall at dead of night Over soiled robes that once were pure and white; The prayers that rise like incense from the soul, Longing for Christ to make it clean and whole; These are not lost.

The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth, When dreams had less of self and more of truth; The childhood's faith, so tranquil and so sweet, Which sat like Mary at the Master's feet; These are not lost.

The kindly plans devised for others' good, So seldom guessed, so little understood; The quiet, steadfast love that strove to win Some wanderer from the ways of sin; These are not lost.

Not lost, O Lord! for in Thy city bright Our eyes shall see the past by clearer light, And things long hidden from our gaze below Thou wilt reveal, and we shall surely know They were not lost.

There's never a rose in all the world But makes some green spray sweeter; There's never a wind in all the sky But makes some bird wing fleeter; There's never a star but brings to heaven Some silver radiance tender; And never a rosy cloud but helps To crown the sunset splendor; No robin but may thrill some heart, His dawn like gladness voicing; God gives us all some small sweet way To set the world rejoicing.

A BROADER FIELD

O thou who sighest for a broader field Wherein to sow the seeds of truth and right— Who fain a fuller, nobler power would wield O'er human souls that languish for the light—

Search well the realm that even now is thine! Canst not thou in some far-off corner find A heart sin-bound, like tree with sapping vine, Waiting for help its burdens to unbind?

Some human plant, perchance beneath thine eyes, Pierced through with hidden thorns of idle fears; Or drooping low for need of light from skies Obscured by doubt-clouds raining poison tears?

Some bruised soul the balm of love would heal; Some timid spirit faith would courage give; Or maimed brother, who, though brave and leal, Still needeth thee, to rightly walk and live?

O while one soul thou findest which hath not known The fullest help thy soul hath power to give, Sigh not for fields still broader than thine own, But, steadfast in thine own, more broadly live.

—Julia Anna Wolcott.

Be it health or be it leisure, Be it skill we have to give, Still in spending it for others Christians only really live.

Not in having or receiving, But in giving, there is bliss; He who has no other pleasure Ever may rejoice in this.

WHAT CHRIST SAID

I said, "Let me walk in the fields." He said, "No, walk in the town." I said, "There are no flowers there." He said, "No flowers, but a crown."

I said, "But the skies are black; There is nothing but noise and din." And He wept as he sent me back; "There is more," He said; "there is sin."

I said, "But the air is thick, And fogs are veiling the sun." He answered, "Yet souls are sick, And souls in the dark undone."

I said, "I shall miss the light, And friends will miss me, they say." He answered, "Choose to-night If I am to miss you, or they."

I pleaded for time to be given. He said, "Is it hard to decide? It will not seem hard in heaven To have followed the steps of your Guide."

I cast one look at the fields, Then set my face to the town; He said, "My child, do you yield? Will you leave the flowers for the crown?"

Then into His hand went mine, And into my heart came He; And I walk in a light divine The path I had feared to see.

—George Macdonald.

MY SERVICE

I asked the Lord to let me do Some mighty work for Him; To fight amid His battle hosts, Then sing the victor's hymn. I longed my ardent love to show, But Jesus would not have it so.

He placed me in a quiet home, Whose life was calm and still, And gave me little things to do, My daily round to fill; I could not think it good to be Just put aside so silently.

Small duties gathered round my way, They seemed of earth alone; I, who had longed for conquests bright To lay before His throne, Had common things to do and bear, To watch and strive with daily care.

So then I thought my prayer unheard, And asked the Lord once more That He would give me work for Him And open wide the door; Forgetting that my Master knew Just what was best for me to do.

Then quietly the answer came, "My child, I hear thy cry; Think not that mighty deeds alone Will bring the victory. The battle has been planned by Me, Let daily life thy conquests see."

PASS IT ON

Have you had a kindness shown? Pass it on. It was not given to you alone, Pass it on. Let it travel through the years; Let it wipe another's tears; Till in heaven the deed appears, Pass it on.

Have you found the heavenly light? Pass it on. Souls are groping in the night, Daylight gone. Lift your lighted lamp on high, Be a star in some one's sky, He may live who else would die. Pass it on.

GIVING AND TAKING

Who gives, and hides the giving hand, Nor counts on favor, fame, or praise, Shall find his smallest gift outweighs The burden of the sea and land.

Who gives to whom hath naught been given, His gift in need, though small indeed As is the grass-blade's wind-blown seed, Is large as earth and rich as heaven.

—John Greenleaf Whittier, from Tinnevaluna of India.

ONE PATH TO LIGHT

What is the world? A wandering maze, Where sin hath tracked a thousand ways Her victims to ensnare. All broad and winding and aslope, All tempting with perfidious hope, All ending in despair. Millions of pilgrims throng those roads, Bearing their baubles or their loads Down to eternal night. One only path that never bends, Narrow and rough and steep, ascends Through darkness into light. Is there no guide to show that path? The Bible. He alone that hath The Bible need not stray. But he who hath and will not give That light of life to all that live, Himself shall lose the way.

IF WE COULD ONLY SEE

It were not hard, we think, to serve Him If we could only see! If he would stand with that gaze intense Burning into our bodily sense, If we might look on that face most tender, The brows where the scars are turned to splendor, Might catch the light of his smile so sweet, And view the marks on his hands and feet, How loyal we should be! It were not hard, we think, to serve him, If we could only see!

It were not hard, he says, to see him, If we would only serve; "He that doeth the will of Heaven, To him shall knowledge and sight be given." While for his presence we sit repining, Never we see his countenance shining; They who toil where his reapers be The glow of his smile may always see, And their faith can never swerve. It were not hard, he says, to see him, If we would only serve.

Think not in sleep to fold thy hands, Forgetful of thy Lord's commands, From Duty's claims no life is free, Behold! To-day has need of thee.

WHEN YOU DO AN ACT

You can never tell when you do an act Just what the result will be; But with every deed you are sowing a seed, Though its harvest you may not see. Each kindly act is an acorn dropped In God's productive soil; Though you may not know, yet the tree shall grow And shelter the brows that toil.

YOUR MISSION

If you cannot on the ocean Sail among the swiftest fleet, Rocking on the highest billows, Laughing at the storms you meet; You can stand among the sailors Anchored yet within the bay; You can lend a hand to help them As they launch their boat away.

If you are too weak to journey Up the mountain steep and high, You can stand within the valley While the multitudes go by; You can chant in happy measure As they slowly pass along; Though they may forget the singer They will not forget the song.

If you have not gold and silver Ever ready to command; If you cannot toward the needy, Reach an ever-open hand; You can visit the afflicted, O'er the erring you can weep; You can be a true disciple Sitting at the Saviour's feet.

If you cannot in the harvest Garner up the richest sheaves, Many a grain both ripe and golden Will the careless reapers leave; Go and glean among the briers Growing rank against the wall, For it may be that their shadow Hides the heaviest wheat of all.

If you cannot in the conflict Prove yourself a soldier true, If where fire and smoke are thickest There's no work for you to do; When the battle-field is silent You can go with careful tread: You can bear away the wounded, You can cover up the dead.

If you cannot be the watchman, Standing high on Zion's wall, Pointing out the path to heaven, Offering life and peace to all; With your prayers and with your bounties You can do what Heaven demands, You can be like faithful Aaron, Holding up the prophet's hands.

Do not, then, stand idly waiting For some greater work to do; Fortune is a lazy goddess— She will never come to you. Go and toil in any vineyard, Do not fear to do or dare; If you want a field of labor You can find it anywhere.

—G. M. Grannis.

THE FAITHFUL MONK

Golden gleams of noonday fell On the pavement of the cell, And the monk still lingered there In the ecstasy of prayer; Fuller floods of glory streamed Through the window, and it seemed Like an answering glow of love From the countenance above.

On the silence of the cell Break the faint tones of a bell. 'Tis the hour when at the gate Crowds of poor and hungry wait, Wan and wistful, to be fed With the friar of mercy's bread.