Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul Part 6

--Sydney Henry Morse.

'Twere sweet indeed to close our eyes with those we cherish near, And wafted upward by their sighs soar to some calmer sphere; But whether on the scaffold high or in the battle's van The fittest place where man can die is where he dies for man.

--Michael Joseph Barry.

A TRUE HERO

(James Braidwood of the London Fire Brigade; died June, 1861.)

Not at the battle front, writ of in story, Not in the blazing wreck, steering to glory;

Not while in martyr-pangs soul and flesh sever, Died he--this Hero now; hero forever.

No pomp poetic crowned, no forms enchained him; No friends applauding watched, no foes arraigned him;

Death found him there, without grandeur or beauty.

Only an honest man doing his duty;

Just a G.o.d-fearing man, simple and lowly, Constant at kirk and hearth, kindly as holy;

Death found--and touched him with finger in flying-- Lo! he rose up complete--hero undying.

Now all men mourn for him, lovingly raise him, Up from his life obscure, chronicle, praise him;

Tell his last act; done 'midst peril appalling, And the last word of cheer from his lips falling;

Follow in mult.i.tudes to his grave's portal; Leave him there, buried in honor immortal.

So many a Hero walks unseen beside us, Till comes the supreme stroke sent to divide us.

Then the Lord calls his own--like this man, even, Carried, Elijah-like, fire-winged, to heaven.

--Dinah Maria Mulock Craik.

Unless above himself he can Erect himself, how poor a thing is man.

--Samuel Daniel.

BATTLES

Nay, not for place, but for the right, To make this fair world fairer still-- Or lowly lily of the night, Or sun topped tower of a hill, Or high or low, or near or far, Or dull or keen, or bright or dim, Or blade of gra.s.s, or brightest star-- All, all are but the same to him.

O pity of the strife for place!

O pity of the strife for power!

How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!

How fair the face of a flower!

The blade of gra.s.s beneath your feet The bravest sword--aye, braver far To do and die in mute defeat Than bravest conqueror of war!

When I am dead, say this, but this: "He grasped at no man's blade or shield.

Or banner bore, but helmetless, Alone, unknown, he held the field; He held the field, with sabre drawn, Where G.o.d had set him in the fight; He held the field, fought on and on, And so fell, fighting for the right!"

--Joaquin Miller.

While thus to love he gave his days In loyal worship, scorning praise, How spread their lures for him in vain, Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!

He thought it happier to be dead, To die for Beauty than live for bread.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

Whether we climb, whether we plod, s.p.a.ce for one task the scant years lend, To choose some path that leads to G.o.d, And keep it to the end.

--Lizette Woodworth Reese.

Bravely to do whate'er the time demands, Whether with pen or sword, and not to flinch, This is the task that fits heroic hands; So are Truth's boundaries widened, inch by inch.

--James Russell Lowell.

COURAGE

CONSTANCY, CONFIDENCE, STRENGTH, VALOR

THE BATTLEFIELD

Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud.

Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave-- Gushed, warm with life and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.

Now all is calm and fresh and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talks of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard.

No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry; Oh, be it never heard again!

Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.

A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.

Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof.

And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not.

Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell at last The victory of endurance born.