GREATNESS
FAME, SUCCESS, PROGRESS, VICTORY
A GREAT MAN
That man is great, and he alone,
Who serves a greatness not his own,
For neither praise nor pelf;
Content to know and be unknown:
Whole in himself.
Strong is that man, he only strong,
To whose well-ordered will belong,
For service and delight,
All powers that, in the face of Wrong,
Establish Right.
And free is he, and only he,
Who, from his tyrant passions free,
By Fortune undismayed,
Hath power upon himself, to be
By himself obeyed.
If such a man there be, where'er
Beneath the sun and moon he fare,
He cannot fare amiss;
Great Nature hath him in her care,
Her cause is his;
Who holds by everlasting law
Which neither chance nor change can flaw,
Whose steadfast course is one
With whatsoever forces draw
The ages on;
Who hath not bowed his honest head
To base Occasion; nor, in dread
Of Duty, shunned her eye;
Nor truckled to loud times; nor wed
His heart to a lie;
Nor feared to follow, in the offense
Of false opinion, his own sense
Of justice unsubdued;
Nor shrunk from any consequence
Of doing good;
He looks his Angel in the face
Without a blush; nor heeds disgrace
Whom naught disgraceful done
Disgraces. Who knows nothing base
Fears nothing known.
Not morseled out from day to day
In feverish wishes, nor the prey
Of hours that have no plan,
His life is whole, to give away
To God and man.
For though he live aloof from ken,
The world's unwitnessed denizen,
The love within him stirs
Abroad, and with the hearts of men
His own confers.
The judge upon the justice-seat;
The brown-backed beggar in the street;
The spinner in the sun;
The reapers reaping in the wheat;
The wan-cheeked nun
In cloisters cold; the prisoner lean
In lightless den, the robèd queen;
Even the youth who waits,
Hiding the knife, to glide unseen
Between the gates—
He nothing human alien deems
Unto himself, nor disesteems
Man's meanest claim upon him.
And where he walks the mere sunbeams
Drop blessings on him.
Because they know him Nature's friend,
One whom she doth delight to tend
With loving kindness ever:
Helping and heartening to the end
His high endeavor.
—Edward Bulwer Lytton.
———
FAME AND DUTY
What shall I do lest life in silence pass?
"And if it do,
And never prompt the bray of noisy brass,
What need'st thou rue?
Remember, aye the ocean-deeps are mute—
The shallows roar;
Worth is the ocean—fame is but the bruit
What shall I do to be forever known?
"Thy duty ever!"
This did full many who yet slept unknown.
"O never, never!
Think'st thou perchance that they remain unknown
Whom thou know'st not?
By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown—
Divine their lot."
What shall I do, an heir of endless life?
"Discharge aright
The simple dues with which each day is rife,
Yea, with thy might.
Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise
Will life be fled,
While he who ever acts as conscience cries,
Shall live, though dead."
—Johann C. F. Schiller.
———
NOBLE LIVES
There are hearts which never falter
In the battle for the right;
There are ranks which never alter
Watching through the darkest night;
And the agony of sharing
In the fiercest of the strife
Only gives a nobler daring,
Only makes a grander life.
There are those who never weary
Bearing suffering and wrong;
Though the way is long and dreary
It is vocal with their song,
While their spirits in God's furnace,
Bending to His gracious will,
Are fashioned in a purer mold
By His loving, matchless skill.
There are those whose loving mission
'Tis to bind the bleeding heart;
And to teach a calm submission
When the pain and sorrow smart.
They are angels, bearing to us
Love's rich ministry of peace,
While the night is nearing to us
When life's bitter trials cease.
There are those who battle slander,
Envy, jealousy and hate;
Who would rather die than pander
To the passions of earth's great;
No earthly power can ever crush them,
They dread not the tyrant's frown;
Fear or favor cannot hush them,
Nothing bind their spirits down.
These, these alone are truly great;
These are the conquerors of fate;
These truly live, they never die;
But, clothed with immortality,
When they lay their armor down
Shall enter and receive the crown.
———
THE HIGHER LIFE
To 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
Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chaplet of fame,
But the hymn of the low and the humble, the weary and broken in heart,
Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;
Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes away,
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at the dying of day
With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded, alone,
With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith overthrown.
While the voice of the world shouts its chorus—its pean for those who have won;
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and the sun
Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat,
In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer,
Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory win,
Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within;
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high;
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight—if need be, to die."
Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say,
Are they those whom the world called the victors? who won the success of a day?
The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylæ's tryst,
Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?
—William M. Story.
———
He makes no friend who never made a foe.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
THE TRUE KING
'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple coloring;
Nor the brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.
The king is he who, void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be swayed by smile or frown,
Nor for all the treasure cares,
That mine conceals or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver
Bosomed in the glassy river.
What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunder's light,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,
With onward lance or fiery blade.
Safe, with wisdom for his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down,
He welcomes Fate when Fate is near,
Nor taints his dying breath with fear.
No; to fear not earthly thing,
That it is that makes the king;
And all of us, whoe'er we be,
May carve us out that royalty.
—Seneca, tr. by Leigh Hunt.
———
With comrade Duty, in the dark or day,
To follow Truth—wherever it may lead;
To hate all meanness, cowardice or greed;
To look for Beauty under common clay;
Our brothers' burden sharing, when they weep,
But, if we fall, to bear defeat alone;
To live in hearts that loved us, when we're gone
Beyond the twilight (till the morning break!)—to sleep—
That is Success!
—Ernest Neal Lyon.
———
The common problem, yours, mine, every one's,
Is, not to fancy what were fair in life
Provided it could be, but, finding first
What may be, then find out how to make it fair
Up to our means; a very different thing.
—Robert Browning.
———
BETTER THAN GOLD
Better than grandeur, better than gold,
Than rank and titles a thousandfold,
Is a healthy body, a mind at ease,
And simple pleasures that always please;
A heart that can feel for another's woe,
That has learned with love's deep fires to glow,
With sympathy large enough to enfold
All men as brothers, is better than gold.
Better than gold is a conscience clear,
Though toiling for bread in a humble sphere;
Doubly blest is content and health
Untried by the lusts and the cares of wealth.
Lowly living and lofty thought
Adorn and ennoble the poor man's cot;
For mind and morals in nature's plan
Are the genuine tests of the gentleman.
Better than gold is the sweet repose
Of the sons of toil when labors close;
Better than gold is the poor man's sleep
And the balm that drops on his slumbers deep.
Bring sleeping draughts to the downy bed,
Where luxury pillows its aching head;
The toiler a simple opiate deems
A shorter route to the land of dreams.
Better than gold is a thinking mind
That in the realm of books can find
A treasure surpassing Australian ore,
And live with the great and good of yore;
The sage's lore and the poet's lay;
The glories of empires passed away;
The world's great dream will thus unfold
And yield a pleasure better than gold.
Better than gold is a peaceful home,
Where all the fireside characters come,
The shrine of love, the heaven of life,
Hallowed by mother or by wife.
However humble the home may be,
Or tried with sorrow by heaven's decree,
The blessings that never were bought or sold
And center there, are better than gold.
—Abram J. Ryan.
———
When success exalts thy lot
God for thy virtue lays a plot.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
———
MAXIMUS
I hold him great who, for Love's sake,
Can give with generous, earnest will;
Yet he who takes for Love's sweet sake
I think I hold more generous still.
I bow before the noble mind
That freely some great wrong forgives;
Yet nobler is the one forgiven,
Who bears that burden well and lives.
It may be hard to gain, and still
To keep a lowly, steadfast heart;
Yet he who loses has to fill
A harder and a truer part.
Glorious it is to wear the crown
Of a deserved and pure success;
He who knows how to fail has won
A crown whose luster is not less.
Great may he be who can command
And rule with just and tender sway;
Yet is Diviner wisdom taught
Better by him who can obey.
Blessed are those who die for God,
And earn the martyr's crown of light;
Yet he who lives for God may be
A greater conqueror in his sight.
—Adelaide Anne Procter.
———
'Tis phrase absurd to call a villain great:
Who wickedly is wise, or madly brave,
Is but the more a fool, the more a knave.
Who noble ends by noble means obtains,
Or, failing, smiles in exile or in chains;
Like good Aurelius, let him reign, or bleed
Like Socrates—that man is great indeed.
One self-approving hour whole years outweighs
Of stupid starers and of loud huzzas;
And more true joy Marcellus exiled feels,
Than Cæsar with a senate at his heels.
—Alexander Pope.
———
Though world on world in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
THE GOOD, GREAT MAN
How seldom, friend, a good, great man inherits
Honor and wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It seems a story from the world of spirits
When any man obtains that which he merits,
Or any merits that which he obtains.
For shame, my friend; renounce this idle strain!
What would'st thou have a good, great man obtain?
Wealth, title, dignity, a golden chain,
Or heap of corses which his sword hath slain?
Goodness and greatness are not means, but ends.
Hath he not always treasurer, always friends,
The great, good man? Three treasures—love, and light,
And calm thoughts, equable as infants' breath;
And three fast friends, more sure than day or night—
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
—Samuel Taylor Coleridge.
———
THE POEM OF THE UNIVERSE
The poem of the universe
Nor rhythm has nor rhyme;
For God recites the wondrous song
A stanza at a time.
Great deeds is he foredoomed to do—
With Freedom's flag unfurled—
Who hears the echo of that song
As it goes down the world.
Great words he is compelled to speak
Who understands the song;
He rises up like fifty men,
Fifty good men and strong.
A stanza for each century:
Now heed it all who can!
Who hears it, he, and only he,
Is the elected man.
—Charles Weldon.
———
When faith is lost, when honor dies,
The man is dead!
—John Greenleaf Whittier.
———
FAILURE AND SUCCESS
He fails who climbs to power and place
Up the pathway of disgrace.
He fails not who makes truth his cause,
Nor bends to win the crowd's applause.
He fails not, he who stakes his all
Upon the right, and dares to fall;
What though the living bless or blame,
For him the long success of fame.
—Richard Watson Gilder.
———
WHAT DOES IT MATTER?
It matters little where I was born,
Or if my parents were rich or poor;
Whether they shrunk at the cold world's scorn,
Or walked in the pride of wealth secure.
But whether I live an honest man
And hold my integrity firm in my clutch
I tell you, brother, as plain as I can,
It matters much.
It matters little 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
He 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 the most gifted poet
That ever breathed a word;
And never earth's philosopher
Traced, with his golden pen,
On the deathless page, truths half so sage
As he wrote down for men.
And had he not high honor?
The hillside for his pall;
To lie in state while angels wait
With stars for tapers tall;
And the dark rock pines, like tossing plumes,
Over his bier to wave;
And God's own hand, in that lonely land,
To lay him in his grave;
In that deep grave without a name,
Whence his uncoffined clay
Shall break again—most wondrous thought!—
Before the judgment day,
And stand, with glory wrapt around,
On the hills he never trod,
And speak of the strife that won our life
Through Christ, the incarnate God.
O lonely tomb in Moab's land,
O dark Beth-peor's hill,
Speak to these curious hearts of ours,
And teach them to be still.
God hath his mysteries of grace—
Ways that we cannot tell;
He hides them deep, like the secret sleep
Of him he loved so well.
—Cecil Frances Alexander.
———
O, blessed is that man of whom some soul can say,
"He was an inspiration along life's toilsome way,
A well of sparkling water, a fountain flowing free,
Forever like his Master, in tenderest sympathy."
———
Truths would you teach, or save a sinking land?
All fear, none aid you, and few understand.
Painful pre-eminence!—yourself to view
Above life's weakness, and its comforts too.
—Alexander Pope.
———
EMIR HASSAN
Emir Hassan, of the prophet's race,
Asked with folded hands the Almighty's grace,
Then within the banquet-hall he sat,
At his meal, upon the embroidered mat.
There a slave before him placed the food,
Spilling from the charger, as he stood,
Awkwardly upon the Emir's breast
Drops that foully stained the silken vest.
To the floor, in great remorse and dread,
Fell the slave, and thus, beseeching, said:
"Master, they who hasten to restrain
Rising wrath, in paradise shall reign."
Gentle was the answer Hassan gave:
"I am not angry." "Yet," pursued the slave,
"Yet doth higher recompense belong
To the injured who forgives a wrong."
"I forgive," said Hassan. "Yet we read,"
So the prostrate slave went on to plead,
"That a higher seat in glory still
Waits the man who renders good for ill."
"Slave, receive thy freedom; and, behold,
In thy hand I lay a purse of gold.
Let me never fail to heed, in aught,
What the prophet of our God hath taught."
———
TRUE GREATNESS
Who is as the Christian great?
Bought and washed with sacred blood,
Crowns he sees beneath his feet.
Soars aloft and walks with God.
Lo, his clothing is the sun,
The bright sun of righteousness;
He hath put salvation on,
Jesus is his beauteous dress.
Angels are his servants here;
Spread for him their golden wings;
To his throne of glory bear,
Seat him by the King of kings.
—Charles Wesley.
———
The glory is not in the task, but in
The doing it for Him.
—Jean Ingelow.
———
MENCIUS
Three centuries before the Christian age
China's great teacher, Mencius, was born;
Her teeming millions did not know that morn
Had broken on her darkness; that a sage,
Reared by a noble mother, would her page
Of history forevermore adorn.
For twenty years, from court to court, forlorn
He journeyed, poverty his heritage,
And preached of virtue, but none cared to hear.
Life seemed a failure, like a barren rill;
He wrote his books, and lay beneath the sod:
When, lo! his work began; and far and near
Adown the ages Mencius preaches still:
Do thy whole duty, trusting all to God.
—Sarah Knowles Bolton.
———
He stood, the youth they called the Beautiful,
At morning, on his untried battle-field,
And laughed with joy to see his stainless shield,
When, with a tender smile, but doubting sigh,
His lord rode by.
When evening fell, they brought him, wounded sore,
His battered shield with sword-thrusts gashed and rent,
And laid him where the king stood by his tent.
"Now art thou Beautiful," the master said,
And bared his head.
—Annie M. L. Hawes.
———
Great men grow greater by the lapse of time;
We know those least whom we have seen the latest;
And they, 'mongst those whose names have grown sublime,
Who worked for human liberty are greatest.
—John Boyle O'Reilly.
———
It is enough—
Enough—just to be good;
To lift our hearts where they are understood;
To let the thirst for worldly power and place
Go unappeased; to smile back in God's face
With the glad lips our mothers used to kiss.
Ah! though we miss
All else but this,
To be good is enough!
—James Whitcomb Riley.
———
He who ascends to mountain tops shall find
Their loftiest peaks most wrapped in clouds and snow;
He who surpasses or subdues mankind
Must look down on the hate of those below.
Though high above the sun of glory glow,
And far beneath the earth and ocean spread,
Round him are icy rocks, and loudly blow
Contending tempests on his naked head.
—George Gordon Byron.
———
Good name in man and woman, dear my lord,
Is the immediate jewel of their souls:
Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing;
Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands;
But he that filches from me my good name
Robs me of that which not enriches him,
And makes me poor indeed.
—William Shakespeare.
———
That man may last, but never lives,
Who much receives but nothing gives;
Whom none can love, whom none can thank;
Creation's blot; creation's blank!
But he who marks, from day to day,
In generous acts his radiant way
Treads the same path his Saviour trod:
The path to glory and to God.
———
The eye with seeing is not filled,
The ear with hearing not at rest;
Desire with having is not stilled,
With human praise no heart is blest.
Vanity, then, of vanities,
All things for which men grasp and grope!
The precious things in heavenly eyes
Are love, and truth, and trust, and hope.
———
A gem which falls within the mire will still a gem remain;
Men's eyes turn downward to the earth and search for it with pain.
But dust, though whirled aloft to heaven, continues dust alway,
More base and noxious in the air than when on earth it lay.
—Saadi, tr. by James Freeman Clarke.
———
It was not anything she said;
It was not anything she did;
It was the movement of her head,
The lifting of her lid.
And as she trod her path aright
Power from her very garments stole;
For such is the mysterious might
God grants a noble soul.
———
True worth is in being, not seeming;
In doing, each day that goes by,
Some little good, not in dreaming,
Of great things to do by and by.
For whatever men say in their blindness,
And spite of the fancies of youth,
There's nothing so kingly as kindness,
And nothing so royal as truth.
—Alice Cary.
———
The wisest man could ask no more of Fate
Than to be simple, modest, manly, true,
Safe from the Many, honored by the Few;
To count as naught in world of church or state
But inwardly in secret to be great.
—James Russell Lowell.
———
And only the Master shall praise us, and only the Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame;
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees it, for the God of Things as they are.
—Rudyard Kipling.
———
In life's small things be resolute and great
To keep thy muscle trained; knowest thou when Fate
Thy measure takes? or when she'll say to thee,
"I find thee worthy; do this deed for me"?
—James Russell Lowell.
———
'Tis a lifelong toil till our lump be leaven.
The better! What's come to perfection perishes.
Things learned on earth we shall practice in heaven.
Work done least rapidly Art most cherishes.
—Robert Browning.
———
Let come what will, I mean to bear it out,
And either live with glorious victory
Or die with fame, renowned in chivalry.
He is not worthy of the honey-comb
That shuns the hive because the bees have stings.
—William Shakespeare.
———
One by one thy duties wait thee,
Let thy whole strength go to each.
Let no future dreams elate thee,
Learn thou first what these can teach.
—Adelaide Anne Procter.
———
Give me heart-touch with all that live
And strength to speak my word;
But if that is denied me, give
The strength to live unheard.
—Edwin Markham.
———
Honor and shame from no condition rise;
Act well your part, there all the honor lies
—Alexander Pope.
———
How wretched is the man with honors crowned,
Who, having not the one thing needful found,
Dies, known to all, but to himself unknown.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
———
He fought a thousand glorious wars,
And more than half the world was his,
And somewhere, now, in yonder stars,
Can tell, mayhap, what greatness is.
—William Makepeace Thackeray.
———
Howe'er it be, it seems to me
'Tis only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,
And simple faith than Norman blood.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
I've learned to prize the quiet, lightning deed,
Not the applauding thunder at its heels
Which men call fame.
—Alexander Smith.
———
It is worth while to live!
Be of good cheer;
Love casts out fear;
Rise up, achieve.
—Christina G. Rossetti.
———
No endeavor is in vain;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain.
—Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.
———
Far better in its place the lowliest bird
Should sing aright to Him the lowliest song,
Than that a seraph strayed should take the word
And sing His glory wrong.
—Jean Ingelow.
———
Often ornateness
Goes with greatness.
Oftener felicity
Comes of simplicity.
—William Watson.
———
A jewel is a jewel still, though lying in the dust,
And sand is sand, though up to heaven by the tempest thrust.
—From the Persian.
———
Vulgar souls surpass a rare one in the headlong rush;
As the hard and worthless stones a precious pearl will crush.
—From the Persian.
———
Be noble! and the nobleness that lies
In other men, sleeping, but never dead,
Will rise in majesty to meet thine own.
—James Russell Lowell.
———
The mean of soul are sure their faults to gloss,
And find a secret gain in others' loss.
—John Boyle O'Reilly.
———
Ah, a man's reach should exceed his grasp,
Or what's heaven for?
—Robert Browning.
———
Though thy name be spread abroad,
Like winged seed, from shore to shore,
What thou art before thy God,
That thou art and nothing more.
———
My business is not to remake myself,
But make the absolute best of what God made.
—Robert Browning.
———
For never land long lease of empire won
Whose sons sat silent when base deeds were done.
—James Russell Lowell.
———
He that would free from malice pass his days
Must live obscure and never merit praise.
—John Gay.
———
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life,
Before a thousand peering littlenesses.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
The aim, if reached or not, makes great the life,
Try to be Shakespeare—leave the rest to fate.
—Robert Browning.
———
Unblemished let me live, or die unknown;
O, grant an honest fame, or grant me none.
—Alexander Pope.
———
With fame in just proportion envy grows;
The man that makes a character makes foes.
—Edward Young.
———
'Tis not what man does which exalts him,
But what man would do.
—Robert Browning.
———
Better have failed in the high aim, as I,
Than vulgarly in the low aim succeed.
—Robert Browning.
———
The simple, silent, selfless man
Is worth a world of tonguesters.
—Alfred Tennyson.