Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 5

OUR HEROES

The winds that once the Argo bore Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines, And her hull is the drift of the deep sea floor, Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.

You may seek her crew in every isle, Fair in the foam of aegean seas, But out of their sleep no charm can wile Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.

And Priam's voice is heard no more By windy Illium's sea-built walls; From the was.h.i.+ng wave and the lonely sh.o.r.e No wail goes up as Hector falls.

On Ida's mount is the s.h.i.+ning snow, But Jove has gone from its brow away, And red on the plain the poppies grow Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?

Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?

Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore?

Are there none to fight as Theseus fought, Far in the young world's misty dawn?

Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

Gone?--in a n.o.bler 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 n.o.ble 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 G.o.d!

So, in his Isle of calm delight, Jason may dream the years away, But the heroes live, and the skies are bright, And the world is a braver world to-day.

--Edna Dean Proctor.

The hero is not fed on sweets, Daily his own heart he eats; Chambers of the great are jails, And head winds right for royal sails.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS

They seemed to die on battle-field, To die with justice, truth, and law; The b.l.o.o.d.y corpse, the broken s.h.i.+eld, Were all that senseless folly saw.

But, like Antaeus 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 n.o.blest cause expire Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap; Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied The legions of their pagan foes; And in the truths they testified, From out the ashes rose.

WORTH WHILE

I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to me To say if I will follow truth and Thee, Or choose instead to win, as better worth My pains, some cloying recompense of earth--

Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field, Forspent and bruised, upon a battered s.h.i.+eld, 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, compa.s.sed round with turbulent sound, In middle ocean meets the surging shock, Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.

--Alfred Tennyson.

n.o.bLE DEEDS

Whene'er a n.o.ble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a n.o.ble 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.

G.o.d'S HEROES

Not on the gory field of fame Their n.o.ble 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 l.u.s.ter 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 G.o.d.

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 pa.s.sion, 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 n.o.blest and as best.

No sculptured stone in stately temple Proclaims their rugged lot; Like Him who was their great example, This vain world knew them not.

But though their names no poet wove In deathless song or story, Their record is inscribed above; Their wreaths are crowns of glory.

--Edward Hartley Dewart.

WORLDLY PLACE

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

So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken, Who rates us if we peer outside our pen-- Matched with a palace, is not this a h.e.l.l?

"Even in a palace!" On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words no shadow ever came; And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame Some n.o.bler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop and say: "There were no succor here!

The aids to n.o.ble life are all within."

--Matthew Arnold.

THE VICTORY

To do the tasks of life, and be not lost; To mingle, yet dwell apart; To be by roughest seas how rudely tossed, Yet bate no jot of heart;

To hold thy course among the heavenly stars, Yet dwell upon the earth; To stand behind Fate's firm-laid prison bars, Yet win all Freedom's worth.