TO THINE OWN SELF BE TRUE.
BY PAKENHAM BEATTY.
Pakenham Beatty was born in 1855. He has written several volumes—“To My Lady,” 1878; “Three Women of the People,” 1881; and “Marcia, a Tragedy,” 1884.
By thine own soul’s law learn to live,
And if men thwart thee take no heed,
And if men hate thee have no care;
Sing thou thy song and do thy deed.
Hope thou thy hope and pray thy prayer,
And claim no crown they will not give,
Nor bays they grudge thee for thy hair.
Keep thou thy soul-worn steadfast oath,
And to thy heart be true thy heart;
What thy soul teaches learn to know,
And play out thine appointed part,
And thou shalt reap as thou shalt sow,
Nor helped nor hindered in thy growth,
To thy full stature thou shalt grow.
Fix on the future’s goal thy face,
And let thy feet be lured to stray
Nowhither, but be swift to run,
And nowhere tarry by the way,
Until at last the end is won
And thou mayst look back from thy place
And see thy long day’s journey done.
O, CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!
BY WALT WHITMAN.
Walt Whitman was born on Long Island, N. Y., in 1819. His father was a carpenter. After the family removed to Brooklyn Walt became apprenticed to a newspaper, and at 12 began to write bits of verse, some of which were published in the New York Mirror. He made a series of long tramping tours through the country, returning finally to newspaper work in Brooklyn. He became known to the public as a poet through his “Leaves of Grass,” published in 1885. The volume was declared immoral by some, and the author severely criticised. “Leaves of Grass” has been republished a number of times in the United States, England, and Scotland, and among Whitman’s other works are “Drum Taps,” “As Strong as a Bird on Pinions Free,” “Two Rivulets,” “Specimen Days and Collect,” “November Boughs,” and “Sands at Seventy.” He died in 1892.
O, Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,
The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,
While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;
But, O, heart! heart! heart!
O, the bleeding drops of red,
Where on the deck my Captain lies,
Fallen cold and dead.
O, Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;
Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,
For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,
For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;