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PLACE

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

      So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men,

      Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den

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

      Our freedom for a little bread we sell,

      And drudge under some foolish master's ken,

      Who rates us if we peer outside our pen—

      Matched with a palace, is not this a hell?

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

      Who spoke these words no shadow ever came;

      And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame

      Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win,

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

      The aids to noble life are all within."

      —Matthew Arnold.

      ———

      THE VICTORY

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

      To mingle, yet dwell apart;

      To be by roughest seas how rudely tossed,

      Yet bate no jot of heart;

      To hold thy course among the heavenly stars,

      Yet dwell upon the earth;

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

      Yet win all Freedom's worth.

      —Sydney Henry Morse.

      ———

      'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes

      with those we cherish near,

      And wafted upward by their sighs soar

      to some calmer sphere;

      But whether on the scaffold high or

      in the battle's van

      The fittest place where man can die

      is where he dies for man.

      —Michael Joseph Barry.

      

      ———

      A TRUE HERO

      (James Braidwood of the London Fire

       Brigade; died June, 1861.)

      Not at the battle front, writ of in story,

      Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;

      Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever,

      Died he—this Hero now; hero forever.

      No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him;

      No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;

      Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.

      Only an honest man doing his duty;

      Just a God-fearing man, simple and lowly,

      Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;

      Death found—and touched him with finger in flying—

      Lo! he rose up complete—hero undying.

      Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him,

      Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;

      Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling,

      And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;

      Follow in multitudes to his grave's portal;

      Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.

      So many a Hero walks unseen beside us,

      Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

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

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

      —Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

      ———

      Unless above himself he can

      Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.

      —Samuel Daniel.

      ———

      BATTLES

      Nay, not for place, but for the right,

      To make this fair world fairer still—

      Or lowly lily of the night,

      Or sun topped tower of a hill,

      Or high or low, or near or far,

      Or dull or keen, or bright or dim,

      Or blade of grass, or brightest star—

      All, all are but the same to him.

      O pity of the strife for place!

      O pity of the strife for power!

      How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!

      How fair the face of a flower!

      The blade of grass beneath your feet

      The bravest sword—aye, braver far

      To do and die in mute defeat

      Than bravest conqueror of war!

      When I am dead, say this, but this:

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

      Or banner bore, but helmetless,

      Alone, unknown, he held the field;

      He held the field, with sabre drawn,

      Where God had set him in the fight;

      He held the field, fought on and on,

      And so fell, fighting for the right!"

      —Joaquin Miller.

      ———

      While thus to love he gave his days

      In loyal worship, scorning praise,

      How spread their lures for him in vain,

      Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!

      He thought it happier to be dead,

      To die for Beauty than live for bread.

      —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

      ———

      Whether we climb, whether we plod,

      Space for one task the scant years lend,

      To choose some path that leads to God,

      And keep it to the end.

      —Lizette Woodworth Reese.

      ———

      Bravely to do whate'er the time demands,

      Whether with pen or sword, and not to flinch,

      This is the task that fits heroic hands;

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

      —James Russell Lowell.

COURAGE

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