Glad banners are waving, hands clapping and hurrying feet Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of defeat In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and there Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe a prayer, Hold the hand that is helpless and whisper, "They only the victory win Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within, Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high, Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight-if need be, to die." Speak, History! Who are life's victors? Unroll the long annals and say, Are they those whom the world called the victors,-who won the success of a day? The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopyla's tryst, Or the Persians and Xerxes? Pilate, or Christ? His judges, or Socrates? William Wetmore Story [1819-1895] "THEY WENT FORTH TO BATTLE BUT THEY ALWAYS FELL" THEY went forth to battle but they always fell; They knew not fear that to the foeman yields, A futile weapon; yet the sad scrolls tell It was a secret music that they heard, A sad sweet plea for pity and for peace; And that which pierced the heart was but a word, Though the white breast was red-lipped where the sword Pressed a fierce cruel kiss, to put surcease On its hot thirst, but drank a hot increase. Ah, they by some strange troubling doubt were stirred, And died for hearing what no foeman heard. They went forth to battle but they always fell: Of troubling music, and they fought not well. Shaemas O Sheel [18 THE MASTERS OH, Masters, you who rule the world, I would not waste your time for long, To read how by the weak, the strong When weary of the Mart, the Loom, By fresh-lit lamp, or dying sun, See in my songs how women love. We shared your lonely watch by night, Our thoughts went with you through the fight, Ah, how our hearts leapt forth to you, In pride and joy, when you prevailed, Oh, brain, that did not gain the gold! Here are the hearts to hail you Lord! You played and lost the game? What then? Whom we in secret reverence so. Your work was waste? Maybe your share Ay, you who win, and you who lose, The homeward track, our love is there. To you, the fame, the stress, the sword, We can but wait, until to us You give yourselves, for our reward. To Whaler's deck and Coral beach, 'Neath alien stars your camp-fires glow, THE KINGS A MAN said unto his Angel: "The terrible Kings are on me Then said to the man his Angel: "As judged by the little judges "Thy will is the sovereign measure And only event of things: Were stronger than all these Kings. "Though out of the past they gather, "And Grief, in a cloud of banners, "While Kings of eternal evil "To fear not sensible failure, FAILURES THEY bear no laurels on their sunless brows, These are the Failures. Clutched by Circumstance, Arthur Upson [1877-1908] THE MEN OF OLD · I KNOW not that the men of old Of heart more kind, of hand more bold, I heed not those who pine for force A ghost of Time to raise, As if they thus could check the course Of these appointed days. Still it is true, and over-true, That I delight to close This book of life self-wise and new, And let my thoughts repose |