“Hot spurred the turbaned riders,—
He almost felt their breath,
Where a mountain stream rolled darkly down
Between the hills and death.
“One brave and manful struggle,—
He gained the solid land,
And the cover of the mountains
And the carbines of his band.”
“It was very brave and noble,”
Said the moist-eyed listener then;
“But one brave deed makes no hero;
Tell me what he since hath been?”
“Still a brave and generous manhood,
Still an honor without stain,
In the prison of the Kaiser,
By the barricades of Seine.
“But dream not helm and harness
The sign of valor true;
Peace hath higher tests of manhood
Than battle ever knew.
“Wouldst know him now? Behold him,
The Cadmus of the blind,
Giving the dumb lip language,
The idiot clay a mind;
“Walking his round of duty
Serenely day by day,
With the strong man’s hand of labor,
And childhood’s heart of play;
“True as the knights of story,
Sir Lancelot and his peers,
Brave in his calm endurance
As they in tilt of spears.
“As waves in stillest waters,
As stars in noon-day skies,
All that wakes to noble action
In his noon of calmness lies.
“Wherever outraged nature
Asks word or action brave;
Wherever struggles labor,
Wherever groans a slave;