Chapter 10
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.
_Henry Wadsworth Longfellow._
A CREED
Men may seem sundered from each other; but the soul that each possesses, and the destiny common to all, invest them with a basic brotherhood.
There is a destiny that makes us brothers: None goes his way alone: All that we send into the lives of others Comes back into our own.
I care not what his temples or his creeds, One thing holds firm and fast-- That into his fateful heap of days and deeds The soul of a man is cast.
_Edwin Markham_
From "Lincoln, and Other Poems."
BATTLE CRY
We should win if we can. But in any case we should prove our manhood by fighting.
More than half beaten, but fearless, Facing the storm and the night; Breathless and reeling but tearless, Here in the lull of the fight, I who bow not but before thee, God of the fighting Clan, Lifting my fists, I implore Thee, Give me the heart of a Man!
What though I live with the winners Or perish with those who fall? Only the cowards are sinners, Fighting the fight is all. Strong is my foe--he advances! Snapt is my blade, O Lord! See the proud banners and lances! Oh, spare me this stub of a sword!
Give me no pity, nor spare me; Calm not the wrath of my Foe. See where he beckons to dare me! Bleeding, half beaten--I go. Not for the glory of winning, Not for the fear of the night; Shunning the battle is sinning-- Oh, spare me the heart to fight!
Red is the mist about me; Deep is the wound in my side; "Coward" thou criest to flout me? O terrible Foe, thou hast lied! Here with my battle before me, God of the fighting Clan, Grant that the woman who bore me Suffered to suckle a Man!
_John G. Neihardt._
From "The Quest" (collected lyrics).
THE HAPPY HEART
One of our objects in life should be to find happiness, contentment. The means of happiness are surprisingly simple. We need not be rich or high-placed or powerful in order to be content. In fact the lowly are often the best satisfied. Izaak Walton lived the simple life and thanked God that there were so many things in the world of which he had no need.
Art thou poor, yet hast thou golden slumbers? O sweet content! Art thou rich, yet is thy mind perplexed? O punishment! Dost thou laugh to see how fools are vexed To add to golden numbers, golden numbers? O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
Canst drink the waters of the crispéd spring? O sweet content! Swimm'st thou in wealth, yet sink'st in thine own tears? O punishment! Then he that patiently want's burden bears No burden bears, but is a king, a king! O sweet content! O sweet, O sweet content! Work apace, apace, apace, apace; Honest labor bears a lovely face; Then hey nonny nonny, hey nonny nonny!
_Thomas Dekker._
IF YOU CAN'T GO OVER OR UNDER, GO ROUND
Often the straight road to the thing we desire is blocked. We should not then weakly give over our purpose, but should set about attaining it by some indirect method. A politician knows that one way of getting a man's vote is to please the man's wife, and that one way of pleasing the wife is to kiss her baby.
A baby mole got to feeling big, And wanted to show how he could dig; So he plowed along in the soft, warm dirt Till he hit something hard, and it surely hurt! A dozen stars flew out of his snout; He sat on his haunches, began to pout; Then rammed the thing again with his head-- His grandpap picked him up half dead. "Young man," he said, "though your pate is bone. You can't butt your way through solid stone. This bit of advice is good, I've found: If you can't go over or under, go round."
A traveler came to a stream one day, And because it presumed to cross his way, And wouldn't turn round to suit his whim And change its course to go with him, His anger rose far more than it should, And he vowed he'd cross right where he stood. A man said there was a bridge below, But not a step would he budge or go. The current was swift and the bank was steep, But he jumped right in with a violent leap. A fisherman dragged him out half-drowned: "When you can't go over or under, go round."
If you come to a place that you can't get _through,_ Or _over_ or _under_, the thing to do Is to find a way _round_ the impassable wall, Not say you'll go YOUR way or not at all. You can always get to the place you're going, If you'll set your sails as the wind is blowing. If the mountains are high, go round the valley; If the streets are blocked, go up some alley; If the parlor-car's filled, don't scorn a freight; If the front door's closed, go in the side gate. To reach your goal this advice is sound: If you can't go over or under, go round!
_Joseph Morris._
THICK IS THE DARKNESS
How many of us forget when the sun goes down that it will rise again!
Thick is the darkness-- Sunward, O, sunward! Rough is the highway-- Onward, still onward!
Dawn harbors surely East of the shadows. Facing us somewhere Spread the sweet meadows.
Upward and forward! Time will restore us: Light is above us, Rest is before us.
_William Ernest Henley._
THE BELLY AND THE MEMBERS
(ADAPTED FROM "CORIOLANUS")
No doubt the world is cursed with grafters and parasites--men who live off the body economic and give nothing substantial in return. But an appearance of uselessness is not always proof of such. We should not condemn men in ignorance. As old as Aesop is the fable of the rebellion of the other members of the body against the idle unproductiveness of the belly. In this passage the fable is used as an answer to the plebeians of Rome who have complained that the patricians are merely an encumbrance.
There was a time when all the body's members Rebelled against the belly; thus accused it: That only like a gulf it did remain I' the midst o' the body, idle and unactive, Still cupboarding the viand, never bearing Like labor with the rest, where the other instruments Did see and hear, devise, instruct, walk, feel, And, mutually participant, did minister Unto the appetite and affection common Of the whole body. Note me this, good friend; Your most grave belly was deliberate, Not rash like his accusers, and thus answered: "True is it, my incorporate friends," quoth he, "That I receive the general food at first, Which you do live upon; and fit it is; Because I am the store-house and the shop Of the whole body: but, if you do remember, I send it through the rivers of your blood, Even to the court, the heart, to the seat o' the brain: And, through the cranks and offices of man, The strongest nerves and small inferior veins From me receive that natural competency Whereby they live. Though all at once cannot See what I do deliver out to each, Yet I can make my audit up, that all From me do back receive the flour of all, And leave me but the bran." What say you to 't?
_William Shakespeare._
THE CELESTIAL SURGEON
We may acquire the resolution to be happy by resting on a bed of roses. If that fails us, we should try a bed of nettles.
If I have faltered more or less In my great task of happiness; If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain:-- Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die, A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in!
_Robert Louis Stevenson._
MAN, BIRD, AND GOD
Robert Bruce, despairing of his country's cause, was aroused to new hope and purpose by the sight of a spider casting its lines until at last it had one that held. In the following passage the poet, uncertain as to his own future, yet trusts the providence which guides the birds in their long and uncharted migrations.
I go to prove my soul! I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive! what time, what circuit first, I ask not: but unless God send his hail Or blinding fireballs, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time!
_Robert Browning._
HIS ALLY
The thought of this poem is that a man's best helper may be that which gives him no direct aid at all--a sense of humor.
He fought for his soul, and the stubborn fighting Tried hard his strength. "One needs seven souls for this long requiting," He said at length.
"Six times have I come where my first hope jeered me And laughed me to scorn; But now I fear as I never feared me To fall forsworn.
"God! when they fight upright and at me I give them back Even such blows as theirs that combat me; But now, alack!
"They fight with the wiles of fiends escaping And underhand. Six times, O God, and my wounds are gaping! I--reel to stand.
"Six battles' span! By this gasping breath No pantomime. Tis all that I can. I am sick unto death. And--a seventh time?
"This is beyond all battles' soreness!" Then his wonder cried; For Laughter, with shield and steely harness, Stood up at his side!
_William Rose Benét,_
From "Merchants from Cathay."
SUBMISSION
There are times when the right thing to do is to submit. There are times when the right thing is to strive, to fight. To put forth one's best effort is itself a reward. But sometimes it brings a material reward also. The frog that after falling into the churn found that it couldn't jump out and wouldn't try, was drowned. The frog that kept leaping in brave but seemingly hopeless endeavor at last churned the milk, mounted the butter for a final effort, and escaped.
Submission? They have preached at that so long. As though the head bowed down would right the wrong, As though the folded hand, the coward heart Were saintly signs of souls sublimely strong; As though the man who acts the waiting part And but submits, had little wings a-start. But may I never reach that anguished plight Where I at last grow weary of the fight.
Submission: "Wrong of course must ever be Because it ever was. 'Tis not for me To seek a change; to strike the maiden blow. 'Tis best to bow the head and not to see; 'Tis best to dream, that we need never know The truth. To turn our eyes away from woe." Perhaps. But ah--I pray for keener sight, And may I not grow weary of the fight.
_Miriam Teichner._
A PRAYER
Garibaldi, the Italian patriot, said to his men: "I do not promise you ease; I do not promise you comfort. I promise you hardship, weariness, suffering; but I promise you victory."
I do not pray for peace, Nor ask that on my path The sounds of war shall shrill no more, The way be clear of wrath. But this I beg thee, Lord, Steel Thou my heart with might, And in the strife that men call life, Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray for arms, Nor shield to cover me. What though I stand with empty hand, So it be valiantly! Spare me the coward's fear-- Questioning wrong or right: Lord, among these mine enemies, Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou Keep me from any wound, Though I fall low from thrust and blow, Forced fighting to the ground; But give me wit to hide My hurt from all men's sight, And for my need the while I bleed, Lord, grant me strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou Shouldst grant me victory; Enough to know that from my foe I have no will to flee. Beaten and bruised and banned, Flung like a broken sword, Grant me this thing for conquering-- Let me die fighting, Lord!
_Theodosia Garrison._
From "The Earth Cry."
STABILITY
Whom do we wish for our friends and allies? On whom would we wish to depend in a time of need? Those who are not the slaves of fortune, but have made the most of both her buffets and her rewards. Those who control their fears and rash impulses, and do not give way to sudden emotion. Amid confusion and disaster men like these will stand, as Jackson did at Bull Run, like a veritable stone wall.
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice And could of men distinguish, her election Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing, A man that fortune's buffets and rewards Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and bless'd are those Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger To sound what stop she please. Give me that man That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart, As I do thee.
_William Shakespeare._
THE BARS OF FATE
"There ain't no such beast," ejaculated a farmer as he gazed at the rhinoceros at a circus. His incredulity did not of course do away with the existence of the creature. But our incredulity about many of our difficulties will do away with them. They exist chiefly in our imaginations.
I stood before the bars of Fate And bowed my head disconsolate; So high they seemed, so fierce their frown. I thought no hand could break them down.
Beyond them I could hear the songs Of valiant men who marched in throngs; And joyful women, fair and free, Looked back and waved their hands to me.
I did not cry "Too late! too late!" Or strive to rise, or rail at Fate, Or pray to God. My coward heart, Contented, played its foolish part.
So still I sat, the tireless bee Sped o'er my head, with scorn for me, And birds who build their nests in air Beheld me, as I were not there.
From twig to twig, before my face, The spiders wove their curious lace, As they a curtain fine would see Between the hindering bars and me.
Then, sudden change! I heard the call Of wind and wave and waterfall; From heaven above and earth below A clear command--"ARISE AND GO!"
I upward sprang in all my strength, And stretched my eager hands at length To break the bars--no bars were there; My fingers fell through empty air!
_Ellen M.H. Gates._
From "To the Unborn Peoples."
ULTIMATE ACT
It is well to have purposes we can carry out. It is also well to have purposes so lofty that we cannot carry them out; for these latter are the mighty inner fires which warm our being at its core and without which our impulse to do even the lesser things would be feeble.
I had rather cut man's purpose deeper than Achieving it be crowned as conqueror; To will divinely is to accomplish more Than a mere deed: it fills anew the wan Aspect of life with blood; it draws upon Sources beyond the common reach and lore Of mortals, to replenish at its core The God-impassioned energy of man. And herewith all the worlds of deed and thought Quicken again with meaning--pulse and thrill With Deity--that had forgot His touch. There is not any act avails so much As this invisible wedding of the will With Life--yea, though it seem to accomplish naught.
_Henry Bryan Binns._
From "The Free Spirit."
HE WHOM A DREAM HATH POSSESSED
The man possessed by a vision is not perplexed, troubled, restricted, as the rest of us are. He wanders yet is not lost from home, sees a million dawns yet never night descending, faces death and destruction and in them finds triumph.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting, For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns; Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting, And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a million morns.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of roaming; All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest flight he knows, But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever homing, And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call and goes.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of sorrow, At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of suns he smiles, For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire of a morrow, And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate isles.
He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches, From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a laughing star, And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches, And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car.
_Sheamus O Sheel._
From "The Lyric Year."
SUCCESS
As necessity is the mother of invention, strong desire is the mother of attainment.
If you want a thing bad enough To go out and fight for it, Work day and night for it, Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for it If only desire of it Makes you quite mad enough Never to tire of it, Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for it If life seems all empty and useless without it And all that you scheme and you dream is about it, If gladly you'll sweat for it, Fret for it, Plan for it, Lose all your terror of God or man for it, If you'll simply go after that thing that you want, With all your capacity, Strength and sagacity, Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity, If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt, Nor sickness nor pain Of body or brain Can turn you away from the thing that you want, If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it, _You'll get it!_
_Berton Braley._
From "Things As They Are."
PLAY THE GAME
The Duke of Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won on the cricket fields of Eton. English sport at its best is admirable; it asks outward triumph if possible, but far more it asks that one do his best till the very end and treat his opponent with courtesy and fairness. The spirit thus instilled at school has again and again been carried in after life into the large affairs of the nation.
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night-- Ten to make and the match to win-- A bumping pitch and a blinding light, An hour to play and the last man in. And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat Or the selfish hope of a season's fame, But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote; "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red-- Red with the wreck of a square that broke; The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead, And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke. The river of death has brimmed his banks, And England's far and Honor a name, But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks, "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
This is the word that year by year, While in her place the School is set, Every one of her sons must hear, And none that hears it dare forget. This they all with a joyful mind Bear through life like a torch in flame, And falling, fling to the host behind-- "Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
_Henry Newbolt._
From "Admirals All, and Other Verses."
THE MAN WHO FRETS AT WORLDLY STRIFE
"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" exclaims Puck in _A Mid-summer Night's Dream. _And well might the fairy marvel who sees folk vexing themselves over matters that nine times out of ten come to nothing. Much wiser is the man who smiles at misfortunes, even when they are real ones and affect him personally. Charles Lamb once cheerfully helped to hiss off the stage a play he himself had written.
The man who frets at worldly strife Grows sallow, sour, and thin; Give us the lad whose happy life Is one perpetual grin: He, Midas-like, turns all to gold-- He smiles when others sigh, Enjoys alike the hot and cold, And laughs though wet or dry.
There's fun in everything we meet,-- The greatest, worst, and best; Existence is a merry treat, And every speech a jest:
* * * * *
So, come what may, the man's in luck Who turns it all to glee, And laughing, cries, with honest Puck, "Good Lord! what fools ye be."
_Joseph Rodman Drake._
SERENITY
Calmness of mind to face anything the future may have in store is expressed in this quatrain.
Here's a sigh to those who love me And a smile to those who hate; And whatever sky's above me, Here's a heart for every fate.
_Lord Byron._
HERE'S HOPIN'
An optimist has been described as a man who orders oysters at a restaurant and expects to find a pearl to pay the bill with. This of course is not optimism, but brazen brainlessness. Yet somehow the pearls come only to those who expect them.
Year ain't been the very best;-- Purty hard by trouble pressed; But the rough way leads to rest,-- Here's hopin'!
Maybe craps way short; the rills Couldn't turn the silent mills; But the light's behind the hills,-- Here's hopin'!
Where we planted roses sweet Thorns come up an' pricked the feet; But this old world's hard to beat,-- Here's hopin'!
P'r'aps the buildin' that we planned 'Gainst the cyclone couldn't stand; But, thank God we've got the _land_,-- Here's hopin'!
Maybe flowers we hoped to save Have been scattered on a grave; But the heart's still beatin' brave,-- Here's hopin'!
That we'll see the mornin' light-- That the very darkest night Can't hide heaven from our sight,-- Here's hopin'!
_Frank L. Stanton._
From "The Atlanta Constitution."
CLEON AND I
Toward the end of the yacht race in which the _America_ won her historic cup the English monarch, who was one of the spectators, inquired: "Which boat is first?" "The _America_ seems to be first, your majesty," replied an aide. "And which is second?" asked the monarch. "Your majesty, there seems to be no second." So it is in the race for happiness. The man who is natural, who is open and kind of heart, is always first. The man who is merely rich or sheltered or proud is not even a good second.
Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I; Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I; Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I; Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.
Cleon, true, possesses acres, but the landscape I; Half the charm to me it yieldeth money can not buy, Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor I; He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I.
Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I; Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I; Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die; Death may come, he'll find me ready, happier man am I.
Cleon sees no charm in nature, in a daisy I; Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky; Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I; State for state, with all attendants, who would change? Not I.
_Charles Mackay_.
THE PESSIMIST
Most of our ills and troubles are not very serious when we come to examine the realities of them. Or perhaps we expect too much. An old negro was complaining that the railroad would not pay him for his mule, which it had killed--nay, would not even give him back his rope. "What rope?" he was asked. "Why, sah," answered he, "de rope dat I tied de mule on de track wif."
Nothing to do but work, Nothing to eat but food, Nothing to wear but clothes To keep one from going nude.
Nothing to breathe but air Quick as a flash 'tis gone; Nowhere to fall but off, Nowhere to stand but on.