LITMIR.BIZ

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Admiral, say but one good word.

      What shall we do when hope is gone?"

      The words leapt as a leaping sword,

      "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

      Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck,

      And peered through darkness. Ah, that night

      Of all dark nights! And then a speck—

      A light! A light! A light!

      It grew, a starlit flag unfurled!

      It grew to be Time's burst of dawn:

      He gained a world; he gave that world

      Its grandest lesson: "On, and on!"

      —Joaquin Miller.

      ———

      THE CHOSEN FEW

      The Son of God goes forth to war,

      A kingly crown to gain;

      His blood-red banner streams afar;

      Who follows in his train.

      Who best can drink His cup of woe,

      And triumph over pain,

      Who patient bears His cross below—

      He follows in His train.

      A glorious band, the chosen few,

      On whom the Spirit came;

      Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew,

      And mocked the cross and flame.

      They climbed the dizzy steep to heaven

      Through peril, toil and pain;

      O God! to us may grace be given

      To follow in their train!

      —Reginald Heber.

      ———

      HOW DID YOU DIE?

      Did you tackle that trouble that came your way

      With a resolute heart and cheerful,

      Or hide your face from the light of day

      With a craven soul and fearful?

      O, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce,

      Or a trouble is what you make it,

      And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts,

      But only—how did you take it?

      You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that?

      Come up with a smiling face.

      It's nothing against you to fall down flat,

      But to lie there—that's disgrace.

      The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce;

      Be proud of your blackened eye!

      It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts;

      It's how did you fight—and why?

      And though you be done to the death, what then?

      If you battled the best you could.

      If you played your part in the world of men,

      Why, the Critic will call it good.

      Death comes with a crawl or comes with a pounce,

      And whether he's slow or spry,

      It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts,

      But only—how did you die?

      —Edmund Vance Cooke.

      

      ———

      LUTHER

      That which he knew he uttered,

      Conviction made him strong;

      And with undaunted courage

      He faced and fought the wrong.

      No power on earth could silence him

      Whom love and faith made brave;

      And though four hundred years have gone

      Men strew with flowers his grave.

      A frail child born to poverty,

      A German miner's son;

      A poor monk searching in his cell,

      What honors he has won!

      The nations crown him faithful,

      A man whom truth made free;

      God give us for these easier times

      More men as real as he!

      —Marianne Farningham.

      ———

      THE MARTYRS

      Flung to the heedless winds,

      Or on the waters cast,

      The martyrs' ashes, watched,

      Shall gathered be at last;

      And from that scattered dust,

      Around us and abroad,

      Shall spring a plenteous seed

      Of witnesses for God.

      The Father hath received

      Their latest living breath;

      And vain is Satan's boast

      Of victory in their death;

      Still, still, though dead, they speak,

      And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim

      To many a wakening land,

      The one availing name.

      —Martin Luther, tr. by John A. Messenger.

      ———

      Stainless soldier on the walls,

      Knowing this—and knows no more—

      Whoever fights, whoever falls,

      Justice conquers evermore,

      Justice after as before;

      And he who battles on her side,

      God, though he were ten times slain,

      Crowns him victor glorified,

      Victor over death and pain.

      —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

      ———

      ETERNAL JUSTICE

      The man is thought a knave, or fool,

      Or bigot, plotting crime,

      Who, for the advancement of his kind,

      Is wiser than his time.

      For him the hemlock shall distil;

      For him the axe be bared;

      For him the gibbet shall be built;

      For him the stake prepared.

      Him shall the scorn and wrath of men

      Pursue with deadly aim;

      And malice, envy, spite, and lies,

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