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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. I follow straight, without complaints or grief; Since, if my scent be good, I care not if
It be as short as yours.
George Herbert (1593–1633]
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;
Shall be a fruitful seed;
Horatius Bonar (1808–1889]
Why fear to-morrow, timid heart?
Why tread the future's way?
To-day, dear child, to-day.
The past is written! Close the book
On pages sad and gay;
But live to-day-to-day.
'Tis this one hour that God has given;
His Now we must obey;
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:
gown, her shoes. She keeps no state As once when her pure feet were bare.
Or-almost worse, if worse can beShe 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,
Alice Meynell (1853
THE LADY POVERTY
I MET her on the Umbrian Hills,
Her hair unbound, her feet unshod; As one whom secret glory fills
She walked-alone with God.
I met her in the city street;
Oh, how changed was her aspect then!
Jacob Fischer (18
THE PRAYER OF BEATEN MEN
From "The House of Broken Swords"
We are the fallen, who, with helpless faces
Low in the dust, in stiffening ruin lay,
As o'er us drove the chariots of the fray.
We are the fallen, who by ramparts gory,
Awaiting death, heard the far shouts begin,
For which we died, but dying might not win.
We were but men. Always our eyes were holden,
We could not read the dark that walled us round, Nor deem our futile plans with thine enfolden
We fought, not knowing God was on the ground. Give us our own; and though in realms eternal
The potsherd and the pot, belike, are one, Make our old world to know that with supernal
Powers we were matched, and by the stars o'erthrown.
Ay, grant our ears to hear the foolish praising
Of men-old voices of our lost home-land,
William Hervey Woods (1852–
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 over
whelmed in the strife; Not the jubilant song of the victors, for whom the resound
ing acclaim Of nations was lifted in chorus, whose brows wore the chap
let 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 des
perate 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, un
heeded, 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