none to fight as Theseus fought,
Far in the young world's misty dawn?
Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?
Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?
Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;
Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,
And catch the light of their glorious eyes,
And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.
Whenever a noble deed is done,
There are the souls of our heroes stirred;
Whenever a field for truth is won,
There are our heroes' voices heard.
Their armor rings in a fairer field
Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,
For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,
And the light above them the smile of God!
So, in his Isle of calm delight,
Jason may dream the years away,
But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,
And the world is a braver world to-day.
—Edna Dean Proctor.
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The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head winds right for royal sails.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
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TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS
They seemed to die on battle-field,
To die with justice, truth, and law;
The bloody corpse, the broken shield,
Were all that senseless folly saw.
But, like Antæus from the turf,
They sprung refreshed, to strive again,
Where'er the savage and the serf
Rise to the rank of men.
They seemed to die by sword and fire,
Their voices hushed in endless sleep;
Well might the noblest cause expire
Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap;
Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied
The legions of their pagan foes;
And in the truths they testified,
From out the ashes rose.
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WORTH WHILE
I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to me
To say if I will follow truth and Thee,
Or choose instead to win, as better worth
My pains, some cloying recompense of earth—
Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,
Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,
Home to obscure endurance to be borne
Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn.
—Edward Sandford Martin.
———
WILL
O, well for him whose will is strong!
He suffers, but he will not suffer long;
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong.
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,
Who seems a promontory of rock,
That, compassed round with turbulent sound,
In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.
—Alfred Tennyson.
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NOBLE DEEDS
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds
Thus help us in our daily needs,
And by their overflow
Raise us from what is low!
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
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GOD'S HEROES
Not on the gory field of fame
Their noble deeds were done;
Not in the sound of earth's acclaim
Their fadeless crowns were won.
Not from the palaces of kings,
Nor fortune's sunny clime,
Came the great souls, whose life-work flings
Luster o'er earth and time.
For truth with tireless zeal they sought;
In joyless paths they trod—
Heedless of praise or blame they wrought,
And left the rest to God.
The lowliest sphere was not disdained;
Where love could soothe or save,
They went, by fearless faith sustained,
Nor knew their deeds were brave.
The foes with which they waged their strife
Were passion, self, and sin;
The victories that laureled life
Were fought and won within.
Not names in gold emblazoned here,
And great and good confessed,
In Heaven's immortal scroll appear
As noblest and as best.
No sculptured stone in stately temple
Proclaims their rugged lot;
Like Him who was their great example,
This vain world knew them not.
But though their names no poet wove
In deathless song or story,
Their record is inscribed above;
Their wreaths are crowns of glory.
—Edward Hartley Dewart.
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