Priam's voice is heard no more
By windy Illium's sea-built walls;
From the washing wave and the lonely shore
No wail goes up as Hector falls.
On Ida's mount is the shining snow,
But Jove has gone from its brow away,
And red on the plain the poppies grow
Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.
Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?
Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red
All that is left of the brave of yore?
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,
Far in the young world's misty dawn?
Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?
Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?
Gone?—in a nobler form they rise;
Dead?—we may clasp their hands in ours,
And catch the light of their glorious eyes,
And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.
Whenever a noble deed is done,
There are the souls of our heroes stirred;
Whenever a field for truth is won,
There are our heroes' voices heard.
Their armor rings in a fairer field
Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,
For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,
And the light above them the smile of God!
So, in his Isle of calm delight,
Jason may dream the years away,
But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,
And the world is a braver world to-day.
—Edna Dean Proctor.
———
The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head winds right for royal sails.
—Ralph Waldo Emerson.
———
TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS
They seemed to die on battle-field,
To die with justice, truth, and law;
The bloody corpse, the broken shield,
Were all that senseless folly saw.
But, like Antæus from the turf,
They sprung refreshed, to strive again,
Where'er the savage and the serf
Rise to the rank of men.
They seemed to die by sword and fire,
Their voices hushed in endless sleep;
Well might the noblest cause expire
Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap;
Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied
The legions of their pagan foes;
And in the truths they testified,
From out the ashes rose.
———
WORTH WHILE
I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to me
To say if I will follow truth and Thee,
Or choose instead to win, as better worth
My pains, some cloying recompense of earth—
Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field,
Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield,
Home to obscure endurance to be borne
Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn.
—Edward Sandford Martin.
———
WILL
O, well for him whose will is strong!
He suffers, but he will not suffer long;
He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong.
For him nor moves the loud world's random mock,
Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound,
Who seems a promontory of rock,
That, compassed round with turbulent sound,
In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.
—Alfred Tennyson.
———
NOBLE DEEDS
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought,
Whene'er is spoken a noble thought,
Our hearts in glad surprise,
To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls
Into our inmost being rolls,
And lifts us unawares
Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose
