LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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