Chapter 15
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 G.o.d 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 p.r.o.ne, 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 G.o.d bestow Than such a life as this?
--Adelaide Anne Procter.
n.o.bILITY 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 n.o.ble 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 pa.s.sing, 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
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 a.s.sured.
--Edwin Arnold.
THE LOSING SIDE
Helmet and plume and saber, banner and lance and s.h.i.+eld, 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, Pa.s.sion 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 n.o.blest 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 Thermopylae'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 gla.s.sy 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.