LITMIR.BIZ

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built a house, time laid it in the dust;

      He wrote a book, its title now forgot;

      He ruled a city, but his name is not

      On any tablet graven, or where rust

      Can gather from disuse, or marble bust.

      He took a child from out a wretched cot;

      Who on the State dishonor might have brought;

      And reared him in the Christian's hope and trust.

      The boy, to manhood grown, became a light

      To many souls and preached to human need

      The wondrous love of the Omnipotent.

      The work has multiplied like stars at night

      When darkness deepens; every noble deed

      Lasts longer than a granite monument.

      —Sarah Knowles Bolton.

      ———

      It is not the wall of stone without

      That makes a building small or great,

      But the soul's light shining round about,

      And the faith that overcometh doubt,

      And the love that stronger is than hate.

      —Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

      ———

      THE NOBLY BORN

      Who counts himself as nobly born

      Is noble in despite of place;

      And honors are but brands to one

      Who wears them not with nature's grace.

      The prince may sit with clown or churl

      Nor feel himself disgraced thereby;

      But he who has but small esteem

      Husbands that little carefully.

      Then, be thou peasant, be thou peer,

      Count it still more thou art thine own.

      Stand on a larger heraldry

      Than that of nation or of zone.

      Art thou not bid to knightly halls?

      Those halls have missed a courtly guest:

      That mansion is not privileged

      Which is not open to the best.

      Give honor due when custom asks,

      Nor wrangle for this lesser claim;

      It is not to be destitute

      To have the thing without the name.

      Then, dost thou come of gentle blood,

      Disgrace not thy good company;

      If lowly born, so bear thyself

      That gentle blood may come of thee.

      Strive not with pain to scale the height

      Of some fair garden's petty wall;

      But climb the open mountain side

      Whose summit rises over all.

      ———

      And, for success, I ask no more than this:

      To bear unflinching witness to the truth.

      All true whole men succeed; for what is worth

      Success's name unless it be the thought,

      The inward surety, to have carried out

      A noble purpose to a noble end,

      Although it be the gallows or the block?

      'Tis only Falsehood that doth ever need

      These outward shows of gain to bolster her.

      —James Russell Lowell.

      ———

      Greatly begin! though thou have time

      But for a line, be that sublime—

      Not failure, but low aim is crime.

      —James Russell Lowell.

      

      ———

      THE BURIAL OF MOSES

      By Nebo's lonely mountain,

      On this side Jordan's wave,

      In a vale in the land of Moab,

      There lies a lonely grave.

      But no man dug that sepulchre,

      And no man saw it e'er;

      For the angels of God upturned the sod,

      And laid the dead man there.

      That was the grandest funeral

      That ever passed on earth;

      But no man heard the trampling,

      Or saw the train go forth.

      Noiselessly as the daylight

      Comes when the night is done,

      And the crimson streak on ocean's cheek

      Grows into the great sun—

      Noiselessly as the springtime

      Her crest of verdure weaves,

      And all the trees on all the hills

      Open their thousand leaves—

      So, without sound of music,

      Or voice of them that wept,

      Silently down from the mountain crown

      The great procession swept.

      Perchance some bald old eagle

      On gray Beth-peor's height,

      Out of his rocky eyrie

      Looked on the wondrous sight.

      Perchance some lion, stalking,

      Still shuns the hallowed spot,

      For beast and bird have seen and heard

      That which man knoweth not.

      But when the warrior dieth

      His comrades in the war,

      With arms reversed and muffled drums

      Follow the funeral car;

      They show the banners taken,

      They tell his battles won,

      And after him lead his matchless steed

      While peals the minute gun.

      Amid the noblest of the land

      They lay the sage to rest;

      And give the bard an honored place,

      With costly marble drest,

      In the great minster's transept height,

      Where lights like glory fall,

      While the sweet choir sings and the organ rings

      Along the emblazoned wall.

      This was the bravest warrior

      That ever buckled sword;

      This

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