LITMIR.BIZ

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how long I stay

      In a world of sorrow, sin, and care;

      Whether in youth I am called away

      Or live till my bones and pate are bare.

      But whether I do the best I can

      To soften the weight of Adversity's touch

      On the faded cheek of my fellow man,

      It matters much.

      It matters little where be my grave—

      Or on the land or in the sea,

      By purling brook or 'neath stormy wave,

      It matters little or naught to me;

      But whether the Angel Death comes down,

      And marks my brow with his loving touch,

      As one that shall wear the victor's crown,

      It matters much.

      —Noah Barker.

      ———

      For I am 'ware it is the seed of act

      God holds appraising in his hollow palm,

      Not act grown great thence in the world below;

      Leafage and branchage vulgar eyes admire.

      —Robert Browning.

      

      ———

      OBSCURE MARTYRS

      "The world knows nothing of its greatest men."

      They have no place in storied page;

      No rest in marble shrine;

      They are past and gone with a perished age,

      They died and "made no sign."

      But work that shall find its wages yet,

      And deeds that their God did not forget,

      Done for their love divine—

      These were their mourners, and these shall be

      The crowns of their immortality.

      O, seek them not where sleep the dead,

      Ye shall not find their trace;

      No graven stone is at their head,

      No green grass hides their face;

      But sad and unseen is their silent grave;

      It may be the sand or the deep sea wave,

      Or a lonely desert place;

      For they needed no prayers and no mourning-bell—

      They were tombed in true hearts that knew them well.

      They healed sick hearts till theirs were broken,

      And dried sad eyes till theirs lost light;

      We shall know at last by a certain token

      How they fought and fell in the fight.

      Salt tears of sorrow unbeheld,

      Passionate cries unchronicled,

      And silent strifes for the right—

      Angels shall count them, and earth shall sigh

      That she left her best children to battle and die.

      —Edwin Arnold.

      ———

      THY BEST

      Before God's footstool to confess

      A poor soul knelt and bowed his head.

      "I failed," he wailed. The Master said,

      "Thou did'st thy best—that is success."

      —Henry Coyle.

      ———

      Aspire, break bounds, I say;

      Endeavor to be good and better still,

      And best! Success is naught, endeavor's all.

      —Robert Browning.

      ———

      FAILURE

      He cast his net at morn where fishers toiled,

      At eve he drew it empty to the shore;

      He took the diver's plunge into the sea,

      But thence within his hand no pearl he bore.

      He ran a race, but never reached his goal;

      He sped an arrow, but he missed his aim;

      And slept at last beneath a simple stone,

      With no achievements carved about his name.

      Men called it failure; but for my own part

      I dare not use that word, for what if Heaven

      Shall question, ere its judgment shall be read,

      Not, "Hast thou won?" but only, "Hast thou striven?"

      —Kate Tucker Goode.

      ———

      THE BEGGAR'S REVENGE

      The king's proud favorite at a beggar threw a stone.

      He picked it up as if it had for alms been thrown.

      He bore it in his bosom long with bitter ache,

      And sought his time revenge with that same stone to take.

      One day he heard a street mob's hoarse, commingled cry:

      The favorite comes!—but draws no more the admiring eye.

      He rides an ass, from all his haughty state disgraced;

      And by the rabble's mocking gibes his way is traced.

      The stone from out his bosom swift the beggar draws,

      And flinging it away, exclaims: "A fool I was!

      'Tis madness to attack, when in his power, your foe,

      And meanness then to strike when he has fallen low."

      —From the Persian.

      

      ———

      A THOUGHT

      Hearts that are great beat never loud;

      They muffle their music, when they come;

      They hurry away from the thronging crowd

      With bended brows and lips half dumb.

      And the world looks on and mutters—"Proud."

      But when great hearts have passed away,

      Men gather in awe and kiss their shroud,

      And in love they kneel around their clay.

      Hearts that are great are always lone;

      They never will manifest their best;

      Their greatest greatness is unknown,

      Earth knows a little—God the rest.

      —Abram J. Ryan.

      ———

      HIS MONUMENT

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