Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ Priam's voice is heard no more

      By windy Illium's sea-built walls;

      From the washing wave and the lonely shore

      No wail goes up as Hector falls.

      On Ida's mount is the shining snow,

      But Jove has gone from its brow away,

      And red on the plain the poppies grow

      Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.

      Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?

      Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?

      Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red

      All that is left of the brave of yore?

      Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,

      Far in the young world's misty dawn?

      Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?

      Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

      Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;

      Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,

      And catch the light of their glorious eyes,

      And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.

      Whenever a noble deed is done,

      There are the souls of our heroes stirred;

      Whenever a field for truth is won,

      There are our heroes' voices heard.

      Their armor rings in a fairer field

      Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,

      For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,

      And the light above them the smile of God!

      So, in his Isle of calm delight,

      Jason may dream the years away,

      But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,

      And the world is a braver world to-day.

      —Edna Dean Proctor.

      ———

      The hero is not fed on sweets,

      Daily his own heart he eats;

      Chambers of the great are jails,

      And head winds right for royal sails.

      —Ralph Waldo Emerson.

      ———

      TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS

      They seemed to die on battle-field,

      To die with justice, truth, and law;

      The bloody corpse, the broken shield,

      Were all that senseless folly saw.

      But, like Antæus from the turf,

      They sprung refreshed, to strive again,

      Where'er the savage and the serf

      Rise to the rank of men.

      They seemed to die by sword and fire,

      Their voices hushed in endless sleep;

      Well might the noblest cause expire

      Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap;

      Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied

      The legions of their pagan foes;

      And in the truths they testified,

      From out the ashes rose.

      ———

      WORTH WHILE

      I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to me

      To say if I will follow truth and Thee,

      Or choose instead to win, as better worth

      My pains, some cloying recompense of earth—

      Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,

      Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,

      Home to obscure endurance to be borne

      Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn.

      —Edward Sandford Martin.

      ———

      WILL

      O, well for him whose will is strong!

      He suffers, but he will not suffer long;

      He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong.

      For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,

      Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,

      Who seems a promontory of rock,

      That, compassed round with turbulent sound,

      In middle ocean meets the surging shock,

      Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.

      —Alfred Tennyson.

      

      ———

      NOBLE DEEDS

      Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,

      Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,

      Our hearts in glad surprise,

      To higher levels rise.

      The tidal wave of deeper souls

      Into our inmost being rolls,

      And lifts us unawares

      Out of all meaner cares.

      Honor to those whose СКАЧАТЬ