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Who did so sweetly Death's sad taste convey,
Yet sugaring the suspicion.
Farewell, dear flowers! sweetly your time ye spent, Fit, while ye lived, for smell or ornament,
And after death for cures.
It be as short as yours.
THOU must be true thyself,
If thou the truth wouldst teach;
Another's soul wouldst reach!
To give the lips full speech.
Think truly, and thy thoughts
Shall the world's famine feed;
Live truly, and thy life shall be
Horatius Bonar [1808-1889]
WHY fear to-morrow, timid heart?
The past is written!
On pages sad and gay;
Close the book
'Tis this one hour that God has given;
And it will make our earth his heaven
Lydia Avery Coonley Ward [1845
THE VALLEY OF VAIN VERSES
THE grief that is but feigning,
The love that is but passion
Henry Van Dyke [1852
LORD, for the erring thought
For ignorant hopes that were
For all loss of seeming good:
William Dean Howells [1837
THE LADY POVERTY
THE Lady Poverty was fair:
With change of times and change of air.
Ah slattern, she neglects her hair,
Or-almost worse, if worse can be― She scolds in parlors; dusts and trims, Watches and counts. Oh, is this she Whom Francis met, whose step was free, Who with Obedience caroled hymns, In Umbria walked with Chastity?
Where is her ladyhood? Not here,
THE LADY POVERTY
I MET her on the Umbrian Hills,
She walked-alone with God.
I met her in the city street;
Oh, how changed was her aspect then! With heavy eyes and weary feet She walked alone-with men. Jacob Fischer [18
THE PRAYER OF BEATEN MEN
WE are the fallen, who, with helpless faces
We are the fallen, who by ramparts gory,
Awaiting death, heard the far shouts begin,
We were but men. Always our eyes were holden,
We fought, not knowing God was on the ground.
Give us our own; and though in realms eternal
Ay, grant our ears to hear the foolish praising
Of men-old voices of our lost home-land,
THE LAST WORD
CREEP into thy narrow bed,
Let the long contention cease!
They out-talked thee, hissed thee, tore thee?
Charge once more, then, and be dumb!
Matthew Arnold [1822-1888]
From "He and She"
I SING the hymn of the conquered, who fell in the Battle of Life,
The hymn of the wounded, the 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, the 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 pæan for those who have won;
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant and high to the breeze and the sun