Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul. Various

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