The heights by great men gained and kept
Were not attained by sudden flight;
But they, while their companions slept,
Were toiling upwards in the light.
H. W. Longfellow, Maine, 1807-.
99. How to Live.
He liveth long who liveth well;
All else is life but flung away;
He livest longest who can tell
Of true things truly done each day.
Then fill each hour with what will last;
Buy up the moments as they go;
The life above, when this is past,
is the ripe fruit of life below.
H. Bonar, Scotland, 1808
Who meekly folds his hand in Jesus' palm,
And follows Him through dusty lane and street,
Through store and market-place, at home, abroad,
And in the busy haunts of men, as much
As in the lonely stillness of the night,
Clings ever nearer to the Lord's close touch,
To me is Christ's disciple if, with mine,
His heartbeats do but throb in unison,
Though eye see not to eye, will waiting stand,
Till, when the thin disguise of speech shall fall,
On his brow shall be written, CHRIST MY ALL.
Wm. L. Gage, N. H., 1832-.
Think not that strength lies in the big round word, Or that the brief and plain must needs be weak. To whom can this seem true, that once has heard The cry for help, the tongue that all men speak When want, or woe, or fear is in the throat,
So that each word gasped out is like a shriek Pressed from the sore heart, or a strange wild note, Sung by some foe or fiend. There is a strength Which dies if stretched too far or spun too fine, Which has more height than breadth, more depth than length.
Let but this force of thought and speech be mine, And he that will may take the sleek fat phrase, Which glows and burns not, though it gleam and shineLight, but not heat,-a flash, but not blaze.
J. A. Alexander, Penn., 1809-1860.
O, happiest he, whose riper years retain
The hopes of youth, unsullied by a stain!
His eve of life in calm content shall glide,
Like the still streamlet to the ocean tide:
No gloomy cloud hangs o'er his tranquil day;
No meteor lures him from his home astray;
For him there glows with glittering beam on high
Love's changeless star that leads him to the sky;
Still to the past he sometimes turns to trace
The mild expression of a mother's face,
And dreams, perchance, as oft in earlier years,
The low, sweet music of her voice he hears.
J. T. Fields, New Hampshire, 1820-.
103. Character.
By trifles, in our common ways,
Our characters are slowly piled;
We lose not all our yesterdays;
The man hath something of the child;
Part of the Past to all the Present cleaves,
As the rose-odors linger in fading leaves.
In ceaseless toil, from year to year,
Working with loathe or willing hands,
Stone upon stone we shape and rear,
Till the completed fabric stands;
And when the last hush hath all labor stilled,
The searching fire will try what we have striven
W. M. Punshon, England, 1823—.
I charge thee, fling away ambition;
By that sin fell the angels; how can man, then,
The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't?
Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee;
Corruption wins not more than honesty.
Still, in thy right hand, carry gentle peace,
To silence envious tongues. Be just, fear not;
Let all the ends thou aimest at be thy country's,
Thy God's, and truth's.
Shakespeare, England, 1564-1616.
Why should we count our life by years,
Since years are short, and pass away ?
Or, why by fortune's smiles or tears,
Since tears are vain, and smiles decay?
O, count by virtues, these shall last
When life's lame-footed race is o'er;
And these, when earthly joys are past,
May cheer us on a brighter shore.
Sarah J. Hale, N. H., 1796-1879.
How hardly man this lesson learns,
To smile and bless the hand that spurns;
To see the blow, to feel the pain,
And render only love again;
One had it,- but He came from heaven,
Reviled, rejected, and betrayed;
No curse He breathed, no plaint He made,
But when in death's dark pang He sighed,
Prayed for His murderers, and died.
He is the free man whom the truth makes free,
And all are slaves beside. There's not a chain
That hellish foes confederate for his harm
Can wind around him, but he casts it off
With as much ease as Samson his green withes.
He looks abroad into the varied field
Of nature; and though, perhaps, compared
With those whose mansions glitter in his sight,
Calls the delightful scenery all his own.
His are the mountains, and the valley his,
And the resplendent rivers. His to enjoy
With a propriety that none can feel,
But who, with filial confidence inspired,
Can lift to heaven an unpresumptuous eye,
And smiling, say, "My Father made them all."
Cowper, England, 1731-1800.
Could I command with voice or pen
The tongues of angels and of men,
A tinkling cymbal, sounding brass,
My speech and preaching would surpass;
Vain were such eloquence to me
Without the grace of charity.
J. Montgomery, Scotland, 1771-1854.
No radiant pearl, which crested Fortune wears,
No gem that twinkiing hangs from Beauty's ears,
Not the bright stars, which Night's blue arch adorn,
Nor rising suns, that gild the vernal morn,
Shine with such lustre as the tear that breaks
For other's woe down Virtue's manly cheeks.
E. Darwin, England, 1731-1802.
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