The wisest men know that the greatest world is not outside them. They could, in Shakespeare's phrase, be bounded by a nut-shell and count themselves kings of infinite space.
What of the outer drear,
As long as there's inner light;
As long as the sun of cheer
Shines ardently bright?
As long as the soul's a-wing,
As long as the heart is true,
What power hath trouble to bring
A sorrow to you?
No bar can encage the soul,
Nor capture the spirit free,
As long as old earth shall roll,
Or hours shall be.
Our world is the world within,
Our life is the thought we take,
And never an outer sin
Can mar it or break.
Brood not on the rich man's land,
Sigh not for miser's gold,
Holding in reach of your hand
The treasure untold
That lies in the Mines of Heart,
That rests in the soul alone—
Bid worry and care depart,
Come into your own!
John Kendrick
From "Songs of Cheer."
"Forgive my enemies?" said the dying man to the priest. "I have none. I've killed them all." This old ideal of exterminating our enemies has by no means disappeared from the earth. But it is waning. "Live and let live" is a more modern slogan, which mounts in turn from mere toleration of other people to a spirit of service and universal brotherhood. Love of our fellow men—has humanity reached any height superior to this?
Abou Ben Adhem (may his tribe increase!)
Awoke one night from a deep dream of peace,
And saw, within the moonlight in his room,
Making it rich, and like a lily in bloom,
An angel writing in a book of gold:—
Exceeding peace had made Ben Adhem bold,
And to the presence in the room he said,
"What writest thou?"—The vision raised its head,
And with a look made of all sweet accord,
Answered, "The names of those who love the Lord."
"And is mine one?" said Abou. "Nay, not so,"
Replied the angel. Abou spoke more low,
But cheerily still; and said, "I pray thee, then,
Write me as one that loves his fellow-men."
The angel wrote, and vanished. The next night
It came again with a great wakening light,
And showed the names whom love of God had blessed,
And, lo! Ben Adhem's name led all the rest.
Leigh Hunt.
There is good in life and there is ill. The question is where we should put the emphasis.
This world that we're a-livin' in
Is mighty hard to beat;
You git a thorn with every rose,
But _ain't _the roses sweet!
Frank L. Stanton.
From "The Atlanta Constitution."
By reckoning up the odds against us and ignoring the forces in our favor, we may indeed close the door of hope. But why not take matters the other way about? Why not see the situation clearly and then throw our own strong purpose in the scales? In the course of a battle an officer reported to Stonewall Jackson that he must fall back because his ammunition had been spoiled by a rainstorm. "So has the enemy's," was the instant reply. "Give them the bayonet." This resolute spirit won the battle.
Hang the gray days!
The deuce-to-pay days!
The feeling-blue and nothing-to-do days!
The sit-by-yourself-for-there's-nothing-new days!
When the cat that Care killed without excuse
With your inner self's crying, "Oh, what's the use?"
And you wonder whatever is going to become of you,
And you feel that a cipher expresses the sum of you;
And you know that you'll never,
Oh, never, be clever,
Spite of all your endeavor
Or hard work or whatever!
Oh, gee!
What a mix-up you see
When you look at the world where you happen to be!
Where strangers are hateful and friends are a bore,
And you know in your heart you will smile nevermore!
Gee, kid!
Clap on the lid!
It is all a mistake! Give your worries the skid!
There are sunny days coming
Succeeding the blue
And bees will be humming
Making honey for you,
And your heart will be singing
The merriest tune
While April is bringing
A May and a June!
Gray days?
Play days!
Joy-bringing pay days
And heart-lifting May days!
The sun will be shining in just a wee while
So smile!
Griffith Alexander.
From "The Philadelphia Evening Public Ledger."
[Illustration: EDMUND VANCE COOKE]
"A merry heart doeth good like a medicine"; a little laughter cures many a seeming ill.
Here's a motto, just your fit—
Laugh a little bit.
When you think you're trouble hit,
Laugh a little bit.
Look misfortune in the face.
Brave the beldam's rude grimace;
Ten to one 'twill yield its place,
If you have the wit and grit
Just to laugh a little bit.
Keep your face with sunshine lit,
Laugh a little bit.
All the shadows off will flit,
If you have the grit and wit
Just to laugh a little bit.
Cherish this as sacred writ—
Laugh a little bit.
Keep it with you, sample it,
Laugh a little bit.
Little ills will sure betide you,
Fortune may not sit beside you,
Men may mock and fame deride you,
But you'll mind them not a whit
If you laugh a little bit.
Edmund Vance Cooke.
From "A Patch of Pansies."
Many of us merely exist, and think that we live. What we should regain at all costs is freshness and intensity of being. This need not involve turbulent activity. It may involve quite the opposite.
Say not, "I live!"
Unless the morning's trumpet brings
A shock of glory to your soul,
Unless the ecstasy that sings
Through rushing worlds and insects' wings,
Sends you upspringing to your goal,
Glad of the need for toil and strife,
Eager to grapple hands with Life—
Say not, "I live!"
Say not, "I live!"
Unless the energy that rings
Throughout this universe of fire
A challenge to your spirit flings,
Here in the world of men and things,
Thrilling you with a huge desire
To mate your purpose with the stars,
To shout with Jupiter and Mars—
Say not, "I live!"
Say not, "I live!"
Such were a libel on the Plan
Blazing within the mind of God
Ere world or star or sun began.
Say rather, with your fellow man,
"I grub; I burrow in the sod."
Life is not life that does not flame
With consciousness of whence it came—
Say not, "I live!"
Angela Morgan.
From "The Hour Has Struck."
Things are never so bad but they might have been worse. An immigrant into the South paid a negro to bring him a wild turkey. The next day he complained: "You shouldn't shoot at the turkey's body, Rastus. Shoot at his head. The flesh of that turkey was simply full of shot." "Boss," said the negro, "dem shot was meant for me."
His hoss went dead an' his mule went lame;
He lost six cows in a poker game;
A harricane came on a summer's day,
An' carried the house whar' he lived away;
Then a airthquake come when that wuz gone,
An' swallered the lan' that the house stood on!
An' the tax collector, he come roun'
An' charged him up fer the hole in the groun'!
An' the city marshal—he come in view
An' said he wanted his street tax, too!
Did he moan an' sigh? Did he set an' cry
An' cuss the harricane sweepin' by?
Did he grieve that his ol' friends failed to call
When the airthquake come an' swallered all?
Never a word o' blame he said,
With all them troubles on top his head!
Not him…. He clumb to the top o' the hill—
Whar' standin' room wuz left him still,
An', barin' his head, here's what he said:
"I reckon it's time to git up an' git;
But, Lord, I hain't had the measels yit!"
Frank L. Stanton.
From "The Atlanta Constitution."
To Franklin, seeking recognition and aid for his country at the French court, came news of an American disaster. "Howe has taken Philadelphia," his opponents taunted him. "Oh, no," he answered, "Philadelphia has taken Howe." He shrewdly foresaw that the very magnitude of what the British had done would lull them into overconfidence and inaction, and would stir the Americans to more determined effort. Above all, he himself was undisturbed; for to the strong-hearted, trials and reverses are instruments of final success.
My name is Trouble—I'm a busy bloke—
I am the test of Courage—and of Class—
I bind the coward to a bitter yoke,
I drive the craven from the crowning pass;
Weaklings I crush before they come to fame;
But as the red star guides across the night,
I train the stalwart for a better game;
I drive the brave into a harder fight.
My name is Hard Luck—the wrecker of rare dreams—
I follow all who seek the open fray;
I am the shadow where the far light gleams
For those who seek to know the open way;
Quitters I break before they reach the crest,
But where the red field echoes with the drums,
I build the fighter for the final test
And mold the brave for any drive that comes.
My name is Sorrow—I shall come to all
To block the surfeit of an endless joy;
Along the Sable Road I pay my call
Before the sweetness of success can cloy;
And weaker souls shall weep amid the throng
And fall before me, broken and dismayed;
But braver hearts shall know that I belong
And take me in, serene and unafraid.
My name's Defeat—but through the bitter fight,
To those who know, I'm something more than friend;
For I can build beyond the wrath of might
And drive away all yellow from the blend;
For those who quit, I am the final blow,
But for the brave who seek their chance to learn,
I show the way, at last, beyond the foe,
To where the scarlet flames of triumph burn.
Grantland Rice.
From "The Sportlight."
Most of us have failed or gone astray in one fashion or another, at one time or another. But we need not become despondent at such times. We should resolve to reap the full benefit of the discovery of our weakness, our folly.
All in the dark we grope along,
And if we go amiss
We learn at least which path is wrong,
And there is gain in this.
We do not always win the race
By only running right,
We have to tread the mountain's base
Before we reach its height.
* * * * *
But he who loves himself the last
And knows the use of pain,
Though strewn with errors all his past,
He surely shall attain.
Some souls there are that needs must taste
Of wrong, ere choosing right;
We should not call those years a waste
Which led us to the light.
Etta Wheeler Wilcox.
From "Poems of Power."
A lady said to Whistler that there were but two painters—himself and
Velazquez. He replied: "Madam, why drag in Velazquez?" So it is with
Joyousness and Gloom. Both exist,—but why drag in Gloom?
Make merry! Though the day be gray
Forget the clouds and let's be gay!
How short the days we linger here:
A birth, a breath, and then—the bier!
Make merry, you and I, for when
We part we may not meet again!
What tonic is there in a frown?
You may go up and I go down,
Or I go up and you—who knows
The way that either of us goes?
Make merry! Here's a laugh, for when
We part we may not meet again!
Make merry! What of frets and fears?
There is no happiness in tears.
You tremble at the cloud and lo!
'Tis gone—and so 'tis with our woe,
Full half of it but fancied ills.
Make merry! 'Tis the gloom that kills.
Make merry! There is sunshine yet,
The gloom that promised, let's forget,
The quip and jest are on the wing,
Why sorrow when we ought to sing?
Refill the cup of joy, for then
We part and may not meet again.
A smile, a jest, a joke—alas!
We come, we wonder, and we pass.
The shadow falls; so long we rest
In graves, where is no quip or jest.
Good day! Good cheer! Good-bye! For then
We part and may not meet again!
James W. Foley.
From "Friendly Rhymes."
"Faint heart never won fair lady," Mistress Fate herself should be courted, not with feminine finesse, but with masculine courage and aggression.
Flout her power, young man!
She is merely shrewish, scolding,—
She is plastic to your molding,
She is woman in her yielding to the fires desires fan.
Flout her power, young man!
Fight her fair, strong man!
Such a serpent love is this,—
Bitter wormwood in her kiss!
When she strikes, be nerved and ready;
Keep your gaze both bright and steady,
Chance no rapier-play, but hotly press the quarrel she began!
Fight her fair, strong man!
Gaze her down, old man!
Now no laughter may defy her,
Not a shaft of scorn come nigh her,
But she waits within the shadows, in dark shadows very near.
And her silence is your fear.
Meet her world-old eyes of warning! Gaze them down with courage! Can
You gaze them down, old man?
William Rose Benét.
From "Merchants from Cathay."
The great elemental blessings cannot be "cornered." Indeed they cannot be bought at all, but are the natural property of the man whose ways of life are such as to retain them. In this passage a disappointed and harassed king comments on the slumber which he cannot woo to his couch, yet which his humblest subject enjoys.
How many thousand of my poorest subjects
Are at this hour asleep! O sleep! O gentle sleep!
Nature's soft nurse, how have I frighted thee,
That thou no more wilt weigh my eyelids down
And steep my senses in forgetfulness?
Why rather, sleep, liest thou in smoky cribs,
Upon uneasy pallets stretching thee,
And hushed with buzzing night-flies to thy slumber,
Than in the perfumed chambers of the great,
Under the canopies of costly state,
And lulled with sound of sweetest melody?
O thou dull god! why liest thou with the vile
In loathsome beds, and leav'st the kingly couch
A watch-case or a common 'larum bell?
Wilt thou upon the high and giddy mast
Seal up the ship-boy's eyes, and rock his brains
In cradle of the rude imperious surge,
And in the visitation of the winds,
Who take the ruffian billows by the top,
Curling their monstrous heads, and hanging them
With deafning clamor in the slippery clouds,
That with the hurly death itself awakes?
Canst thou, O partial sleep! give thy repose
To the wet sea-boy in an hour so rude,
And in the calmest and most stillest night,
With all appliances and means to boot,
Deny it to a king? Then, happy low, lie down!
Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.
William Shakespeare.
To borrow trouble is to contract a debt that any man is better without. If your troubles are not borrowed, they are not likely to be many or great.
I used to hear a saying
That had a deal of pith;
It gave a cheerful spirit
To face existence with,
Especially when matters
Seemed doomed to go askew,
'Twas Never trouble trouble
Till trouble troubles you.
Not woes at hand, those coming
Are hardest to resist;
We hear them stalk like giants,
We see them through a mist.
But big things in the brewing
Are small things in the brew;
So never trouble trouble
Till trouble troubles you.
Just look at things through glasses
That show the evidence;
One lens of them is courage,
The other common sense.
They'll make it clear, misgivings
Are just a bugaboo;
No more you'll trouble trouble
Till trouble troubles you.
St. Clair Adams.
Humanity is always meeting obstacles. All honor to the men who do not fear obstacles, but push them aside and press on. Stephenson was explaining his idea that a locomotive steam engine could run along a track and draw cars after it. "But suppose a cow gets on the track," some one objected. "So much the worse," said Stephenson, "for the cow."
Men of thought! be up and stirring,
Night and day;
Sow the seed, withdraw the curtain,
Clear the way!
Men of action, aid and cheer them,
As ye may!
There's a fount about to stream,
There's a light about to gleam,
There's a warmth about to glow,
There's a flower about to blow;
There's midnight blackness changing
Into gray!
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Once the welcome light has broken,
Who shall say
What the unimagined glories
Of the day?
What the evil that shall perish
In its ray?
Aid it, hopes of honest men;
Aid the dawning, tongue and pen;
Aid it, paper, aid it, type,
Aid it, for the hour is ripe;
And our earnest must not slacken
Into play.
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Lo! a cloud's about to vanish
From the day;
And a brazen wrong to crumble
Into clay!
With the Right shall many more
Enter, smiling at the door;
With the giant Wrong shall fall
Many others great and small,
That for ages long have held us
For their prey.
Men of thought and men of action,
Clear the way!
Charles Mackay.
We need not expect much of the man who, when defeated, gives way either to despair or to a wild impulse for immediate revenge. But from the man who stores up his strength quietly and bides his time for a new effort, we may expect everything.
Now, think you, Life, I am defeated quite?
More than a single battle shall be mine
Before I yield the sword and give the sign
And turn, a crownless outcast, to the night.
Wounded, and yet unconquered in the fight,
I wait in silence till the day may shine
Once more upon my strength, and all the line
Of your defenses break before my might.
Mine be that warrior's blood who, stricken sore,
Lies in his quiet chamber till he hears
Afar the clash and clang of arms, and knows
The cause he lived for calls for him once more;
And straightway rises, whole and void of fears,
And armed, turns him singing to his foes.
Theodosia Garrison.
From "The Earth Cry."
At times this existence of ours seems to be meaningless; whether we have succeeded or whether we have failed appears to make little difference to us, and therefore effort seems scarcely worth while. But Longfellow tells us this view is all wrong. The past can take care of itself, and we need not even worry very much about the future; but if we are true to our own natures, we must be up and doing in the present. Time is short, and mastery in any field of human activity is so long a process that it forbids us to waste our moments. Yet we must learn also how to wait and endure. In short, we must not become slaves to either indifference or impatience, but must make it our business to play a man's part in life.
Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an empty dream!—
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest!
And the grave is not its goal;
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way;
But to act, that each to-morrow
Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting,
And our hearts, though stout and brave,
Still, like muffled drums, are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead!
Act,—act in the living Present!
Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And, departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing o'er life's solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother,
Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing,
With a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labor and to wait.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
Men may seem sundered from each other; but the soul that each possesses, and the destiny common to all, invest them with a basic brotherhood.
There is a destiny that makes us brothers:
None goes his way alone:
All that we send into the lives of others
Comes back into our own.
I care not what his temples or his creeds,
One thing holds firm and fast—
That into his fateful heap of days and deeds
The soul of a man is cast.
Edwin Markham
From "Lincoln, and Other Poems."
We should win if we can. But in any case we should prove our manhood by fighting.
More than half beaten, but fearless,
Facing the storm and the night;
Breathless and reeling but tearless,
Here in the lull of the fight,
I who bow not but before thee,
God of the fighting Clan,
Lifting my fists, I implore Thee,
Give me the heart of a Man!
What though I live with the winners
Or perish with those who fall?
Only the cowards are sinners,
Fighting the fight is all.
Strong is my foe—he advances!
Snapt is my blade, O Lord!
See the proud banners and lances!
Oh, spare me this stub of a sword!
Give me no pity, nor spare me;
Calm not the wrath of my Foe.
See where he beckons to dare me!
Bleeding, half beaten—I go.
Not for the glory of winning,
Not for the fear of the night;
Shunning the battle is sinning—
Oh, spare me the heart to fight!
Red is the mist about me;
Deep is the wound in my side;
"Coward" thou criest to flout me?
O terrible Foe, thou hast lied!
Here with my battle before me,
God of the fighting Clan,
Grant that the woman who bore me
Suffered to suckle a Man!
John G. Neihardt.
From "The Quest" (collected lyrics).
One of our objects in life should be to find happiness, contentment. The means of happiness are surprisingly simple. We need not be rich or high-placed or powerful in order to be content. In fact the lowly are often the best satisfied. Izaak Walton lived the simple life and thanked God that there were so many things in the world of which he had no need.
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers?
O sweet content!
Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed?
O punishment!
Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed
To add to golden numbers, golden numbers?
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring?
O sweet content!
Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears?
O punishment!
Then he that patiently want's burden bears
No burden bears, but is a king, a king!
O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content!
Work apace, apace, apace, apace;
Honest labor bears a lovely face;
Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Thomas Dekker.
Often the straight road to the thing we desire is blocked. We should not then weakly give over our purpose, but should set about attaining it by some indirect method. A politician knows that one way of getting a man's vote is to please the man's wife, and that one way of pleasing the wife is to kiss her baby.
A baby mole got to feeling big,
And wanted to show how he could dig;
So he plowed along in the soft, warm dirt
Till he hit something hard, and it surely hurt!
A dozen stars flew out of his snout;
He sat on his haunches, began to pout;
Then rammed the thing again with his head—
His grandpap picked him up half dead.
"Young man," he said, "though your pate is bone.
You can't butt your way through solid stone.
This bit of advice is good, I've found:
If you can't go over or under, go round."
A traveler came to a stream one day,
And because it presumed to cross his way,
And wouldn't turn round to suit his whim
And change its course to go with him,
His anger rose far more than it should,
And he vowed he'd cross right where he stood.
A man said there was a bridge below,
But not a step would he budge or go.
The current was swift and the bank was steep,
But he jumped right in with a violent leap.
A fisherman dragged him out half-drowned:
"When you can't go over or under, go round."
If you come to a place that you can't get through,
Or over or under, the thing to do
Is to find a way round the impassable wall,
Not say you'll go YOUR way or not at all.
You can always get to the place you're going,
If you'll set your sails as the wind is blowing.
If the mountains are high, go round the valley;
If the streets are blocked, go up some alley;
If the parlor-car's filled, don't scorn a freight;
If the front door's closed, go in the side gate.
To reach your goal this advice is sound:
If you can't go over or under, go round!
Joseph Morris.
How many of us forget when the sun goes down that it will rise again!
Thick is the darkness—
Sunward, O, sunward!
Rough is the highway—
Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbors surely
East of the shadows.
Facing us somewhere
Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward!
Time will restore us:
Light is above us,
Rest is before us.
William Ernest Henley.
No doubt the world is cursed with grafters and parasites—men who live off the body economic and give nothing substantial in return. But an appearance of uselessness is not always proof of such. We should not condemn men in ignorance. As old as Aesop is the fable of the rebellion of the other members of the body against the idle unproductiveness of the belly. In this passage the fable is used as an answer to the plebeians of Rome who have complained that the patricians are merely an encumbrance.
There was a time when all the body's members
Rebelled against the belly; thus accused it:
That only like a gulf it did remain
I' the midst o' the body, idle and unactive,
Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing
Like labor with the rest, where the other instruments
Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel,
And, mutually participant, did minister
Unto the appetite and affection common
Of the whole body. Note me this, good friend;
Your most grave belly was deliberate,
Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered:
"True is it, my incorporate friends," quoth he,
"That I receive the general food at first,
Which you do live upon; and fit it is;
Because I am the store-house and the shop
Of the whole body: but, if you do remember,
I send it through the rivers of your blood,
Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the brain:
And, through the cranks and offices of man,
The strongest nerves and small inferior veins
From me receive that natural competency
Whereby they live. Though all at once cannot
See what I do deliver out to each,
Yet I can make my audit up, that all
From me do back receive the flour of all,
And leave me but the bran." What say you to 't?
William Shakespeare.
We may acquire the resolution to be happy by resting on a bed of roses.
If that fails us, we should try a bed of nettles.
If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race
And shown no glorious morning face;
If beams from happy human eyes
Have moved me not; if morning skies,
Books, and my food, and summer rain
Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:—
Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take
And stab my spirit broad awake;
Or, Lord, if too obdurate I,
Choose thou, before that spirit die,
A piercing pain, a killing sin,
And to my dead heart run them in!
Robert Louis Stevenson.
Robert Bruce, despairing of his country's cause, was aroused to new hope and purpose by the sight of a spider casting its lines until at last it had one that held. In the following passage the poet, uncertain as to his own future, yet trusts the providence which guides the birds in their long and uncharted migrations.
I go to prove my soul!
I see my way as birds their trackless way.
I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first,
I ask not: but unless God send his hail
Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow,
In some time, his good time, I shall arrive:
He guides me and the bird. In his good time!
Robert Browning.
The thought of this poem is that a man's best helper may be that which gives him no direct aid at all—a sense of humor.
He fought for his soul, and the stubborn fighting
Tried hard his strength.
"One needs seven souls for this long requiting,"
He said at length.
"Six times have I come where my first hope jeered me
And laughed me to scorn;
But now I fear as I never feared me
To fall forsworn.
"God! when they fight upright and at me
I give them back
Even such blows as theirs that combat me;
But now, alack!
"They fight with the wiles of fiends escaping
And underhand.
Six times, O God, and my wounds are gaping!
I—reel to stand.
"Six battles' span! By this gasping breath
No pantomime.
Tis all that I can. I am sick unto death.
And—a seventh time?
"This is beyond all battles' soreness!"
Then his wonder cried;
For Laughter, with shield and steely harness,
Stood up at his side!
William Rose Benét,
From "Merchants from Cathay."
There are times when the right thing to do is to submit. There are times when the right thing is to strive, to fight. To put forth one's best effort is itself a reward. But sometimes it brings a material reward also. The frog that after falling into the churn found that it couldn't jump out and wouldn't try, was drowned. The frog that kept leaping in brave but seemingly hopeless endeavor at last churned the milk, mounted the butter for a final effort, and escaped.
Submission? They have preached at that so long.
As though the head bowed down would right the wrong,
As though the folded hand, the coward heart
Were saintly signs of souls sublimely strong;
As though the man who acts the waiting part
And but submits, had little wings a-start.
But may I never reach that anguished plight
Where I at last grow weary of the fight.
Submission: "Wrong of course must ever be
Because it ever was. 'Tis not for me
To seek a change; to strike the maiden blow.
'Tis best to bow the head and not to see;
'Tis best to dream, that we need never know
The truth. To turn our eyes away from woe."
Perhaps. But ah—I pray for keener sight,
And may I not grow weary of the fight.
Miriam Teichner.
Garibaldi, the Italian patriot, said to his men: "I do not promise you ease; I do not promise you comfort. I promise you hardship, weariness, suffering; but I promise you victory."
I do not pray for peace,
Nor ask that on my path
The sounds of war shall shrill no more,
The way be clear of wrath.
But this I beg thee, Lord,
Steel Thou my heart with might,
And in the strife that men call life,
Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray for arms,
Nor shield to cover me.
What though I stand with empty hand,
So it be valiantly!
Spare me the coward's fear—
Questioning wrong or right:
Lord, among these mine enemies,
Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou
Keep me from any wound,
Though I fall low from thrust and blow,
Forced fighting to the ground;
But give me wit to hide
My hurt from all men's sight,
And for my need the while I bleed,
Lord, grant me strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou
Shouldst grant me victory;
Enough to know that from my foe
I have no will to flee.
Beaten and bruised and banned,
Flung like a broken sword,
Grant me this thing for conquering—
Let me die fighting, Lord!
Theodosia Garrison.
From "The Earth Cry."
Whom do we wish for our friends and allies? On whom would we wish to depend in a time of need? Those who are not the slaves of fortune, but have made the most of both her buffets and her rewards. Those who control their fears and rash impulses, and do not give way to sudden emotion. Amid confusion and disaster men like these will stand, as Jackson did at Bull Run, like a veritable stone wall.
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish, her election
Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,
A man that fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and bless'd are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.
William Shakespeare.
"There ain't no such beast," ejaculated a farmer as he gazed at the rhinoceros at a circus. His incredulity did not of course do away with the existence of the creature. But our incredulity about many of our difficulties will do away with them. They exist chiefly in our imaginations.
I stood before the bars of Fate
And bowed my head disconsolate;
So high they seemed, so fierce their frown.
I thought no hand could break them down.
Beyond them I could hear the songs
Of valiant men who marched in throngs;
And joyful women, fair and free,
Looked back and waved their hands to me.
I did not cry "Too late! too late!"
Or strive to rise, or rail at Fate,
Or pray to God. My coward heart,
Contented, played its foolish part.
So still I sat, the tireless bee
Sped o'er my head, with scorn for me,
And birds who build their nests in air
Beheld me, as I were not there.
From twig to twig, before my face,
The spiders wove their curious lace,
As they a curtain fine would see
Between the hindering bars and me.
Then, sudden change! I heard the call
Of wind and wave and waterfall;
From heaven above and earth below
A clear command—"ARISE AND GO!"
I upward sprang in all my strength,
And stretched my eager hands at length
To break the bars—no bars were there;
My fingers fell through empty air!
Ellen M.H. Gates.
From "To the Unborn Peoples."
It is well to have purposes we can carry out. It is also well to have purposes so lofty that we cannot carry them out; for these latter are the mighty inner fires which warm our being at its core and without which our impulse to do even the lesser things would be feeble.
I had rather cut man's purpose deeper than
Achieving it be crowned as conqueror;
To will divinely is to accomplish more
Than a mere deed: it fills anew the wan
Aspect of life with blood; it draws upon
Sources beyond the common reach and lore
Of mortals, to replenish at its core
The God-impassioned energy of man.
And herewith all the worlds of deed and thought
Quicken again with meaning—pulse and thrill
With Deity—that had forgot His touch.
There is not any act avails so much
As this invisible wedding of the will
With Life—yea, though it seem to accomplish naught.
Henry Bryan Binns.
From "The Free Spirit."
The man possessed by a vision is not perplexed, troubled, restricted, as the rest of us are. He wanders yet is not lost from home, sees a million dawns yet never night descending, faces death and destruction and in them finds triumph.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting,
For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns;
Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting,
And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a million morns.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of roaming;
All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest flight he knows,
But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever homing,
And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call and goes.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of sorrow,
At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of suns he smiles,
For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire of a morrow,
And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate isles.
He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches,
From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a laughing star,
And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches,
And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car.
Sheamus O Sheel.
From "The Lyric Year."
As necessity is the mother of invention, strong desire is the mother of attainment.
If you want a thing bad enough
To go out and fight for it,
Work day and night for it,
Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for it
If only desire of it
Makes you quite mad enough
Never to tire of it,
Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for it
If life seems all empty and useless without it
And all that you scheme and you dream is about it,
If gladly you'll sweat for it,
Fret for it,
Plan for it,
Lose all your terror of God or man for it,
If you'll simply go after that thing that you want,
With all your capacity,
Strength and sagacity,
Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity,
If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt,
Nor sickness nor pain
Of body or brain
Can turn you away from the thing that you want,
If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it,
You'll get it!
Berton Braley.
From "Things As They Are."
The Duke of Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won on the cricket fields of Eton. English sport at its best is admirable; it asks outward triumph if possible, but far more it asks that one do his best till the very end and treat his opponent with courtesy and fairness. The spirit thus instilled at school has again and again been carried in after life into the large affairs of the nation.
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night—
Ten to make and the match to win—
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote;
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red—
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far and Honor a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling, fling to the host behind—
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
Henry Newbolt.
From "Admirals All, and Other Verses."
"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" exclaims Puck in _A Mid-summer Night's Dream. _And well might the fairy marvel who sees folk vexing themselves over matters that nine times out of ten come to nothing. Much wiser is the man who smiles at misfortunes, even when they are real ones and affect him personally. Charles Lamb once cheerfully helped to hiss off the stage a play he himself had written.
The man who frets at worldly strife
Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold—
He smiles when others sigh,
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs though wet or dry.
There's fun in everything we meet,—
The greatest, worst, and best;
Existence is a merry treat,
And every speech a jest:
* * * * *
So, come what may, the man's in luck
Who turns it all to glee,
And laughing, cries, with honest Puck,
"Good Lord! what fools ye be."
Joseph Rodman Drake.
Calmness of mind to face anything the future may have in store is expressed in this quatrain.
Here's a sigh to those who love me
And a smile to those who hate;
And whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
Lord Byron.
An optimist has been described as a man who orders oysters at a restaurant and expects to find a pearl to pay the bill with. This of course is not optimism, but brazen brainlessness. Yet somehow the pearls come only to those who expect them.
Year ain't been the very best;—
Purty hard by trouble pressed;
But the rough way leads to rest,—
Here's hopin'!
Maybe craps way short; the rills
Couldn't turn the silent mills;
But the light's behind the hills,—
Here's hopin'!
Where we planted roses sweet
Thorns come up an' pricked the feet;
But this old world's hard to beat,—
Here's hopin'!
P'r'aps the buildin' that we planned
'Gainst the cyclone couldn't stand;
But, thank God we've got the land,—
Here's hopin'!
Maybe flowers we hoped to save
Have been scattered on a grave;
But the heart's still beatin' brave,—
Here's hopin'!
That we'll see the mornin' light—
That the very darkest night
Can't hide heaven from our sight,—
Here's hopin'!
Frank L. Stanton.
From "The Atlanta Constitution."
Toward the end of the yacht race in which the America won her historic cup the English monarch, who was one of the spectators, inquired: "Which boat is first?" "The America seems to be first, your majesty," replied an aide. "And which is second?" asked the monarch. "Your majesty, there seems to be no second." So it is in the race for happiness. The man who is natural, who is open and kind of heart, is always first. The man who is merely rich or sheltered or proud is not even a good second.
Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I;
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I;
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.
Cleon, true, possesses acres, but the landscape I;
Half the charm to me it yieldeth money can not buy,
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor I;
He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I.
Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I;
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I;
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die;
Death may come, he'll find me ready, happier man am I.
Cleon sees no charm in nature, in a daisy I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I;
State for state, with all attendants, who would change?
Not I.
Charles Mackay.
Most of our ills and troubles are not very serious when we come to examine the realities of them. Or perhaps we expect too much. An old negro was complaining that the railroad would not pay him for his mule, which it had killed—nay, would not even give him back his rope. "What rope?" he was asked. "Why, sah," answered he, "de rope dat I tied de mule on de track wif."
Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes
To keep one from going nude.
Nothing to breathe but air
Quick as a flash 'tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.
Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.
Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.
Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got;
Thus thro' life we are cursed.
Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.
Ben King.
From "Ben King's Verse."
There are irritating, troublesome people about us. Of what use is it to be irritating in our turn or to add to the trouble? Most offenders have their better side. Our wisest course is to find this and upon the basis of it build up a better relationship.
There's a fellow in your office
Who complains and carps and whines
Till you'd almost do a favor
To his heirs and his assigns.
But I'll tip you to a secret
(And this chap's of course involved)—
He's no foeman to be fought with;
He's a problem to be solved.
There's a duffer in your district
Whose sheer cussedness is such
He has neither pride nor manners—
No, nor gumption, overmuch.
'Twould be great to up and tell him
Where to go. But be resolved—
He's no foeman to be fought with,
Just a problem to be solved.
This old earth's (I'm sometimes thinking)
One menagerie of freaks—
Folks invested with abnormal
Lungs or brains or galls or beaks.
But we're not just shrieking monkeys
In a dim, vast cage revolved;
We're not foemen to be fought with,
Merely problems to be solved.
St. Clair Adams.