Not he who wears the poet's purple vest
And sings her songs of love and grief and fate:
There is a better way.

He serves his country best,

Who joins the tide that lifts her nobly on; For speech has myriad tongues for every day, And song but one; and law within the breast Is stronger than the graven law on stone: This is a better way.

He serves his country best

Who lives pure life, and doeth righteous deed,
And walks straight paths, however others stray,
And leaves his sons as uttermost bequest
A stainless record which all men may read:
This is the better way.

No drop but serves the slowly lifting tide,
No dew but has an errand to some flower,
No smallest star but sheds some helpful ray,
And man by man, each giving to all the rest,
Makes the firm bulwark of the country's power:
There is no better way.

THE SOLDIERS' RECESSIONAL

JOHN H. FINLEY

Down from the choir with feebled step and slow,
Singing their brave recessional they go,
Gray, broken, choristers of war,

Bearing aloft before their age-dimmed eyes,

As 'twere their cross for sign of sacrifice,

The flags which they in battle bore,

Down from the choir where late with hoarse throats

sang

Till all the sky-arched vast cathedral rang

With echoes of their rough-made song,

Where roared the organ's deep artillery,

And screamed the slender pipe's dread minstrelsy
In fierce debate of right and wrong.

Down past the altar, bright with flowers, they tread
The aisles 'neath which in sleep their comrades dead
Keep bivouac after their red strife,

Their own ranks thinner growing as they march
Into the shadows of the narrow arch

Which hides the lasting from this life.

Soon, soon, will pass the last gray pilgrim through
Of that thin line in surplices of blue

Winding as some tired stream a-sea;
Soon, soon, will sound upon our list'ning ears
His last song's quaver as he disappears
Beyond our answering litany;

And soon the faint antiphonal refrain,
Which memory repeats in sweetened strain,
Will come as from some far cloud-shore;
Then, for a space the hush of unspoke prayer,
And we who've knelt shall rise with heart to dare
The thing in peace they sang in war.

THE CHILDREN'S SONG

RUDYARD KIPLING

LAND of our Birth, we pledge to thee
Our love and toil in the years to be,
When we are grown and take our place,
As men and women with our race.

Father in Heaven who lovest all,

Oh help Thy children when they call;
That they may build from age to age,
An undefiled heritage!

Teach us to bear the yoke in youth,
With steadfastness and careful truth;
That, in our time, Thy Grace may give
The Truth whereby the Nations live.

Teach us to rule ourselves alway,
Controlled and cleanly night and day;
That we may bring, if need arise,
No maimed or worthless sacrifice.

Teach us to look in all our ends,

On Thee for judge, and not our friends; That we, with Thee, may walk uncowed By fear or favor of the crowd.

Teach us the Strength that cannot seek, By deed or thought, to hurt the weak; That, under Thee, we may possess

Man's strength to comfort man's distress.

Teach us Delight in simple things,
And Mirth that has no bitter springs;
Forgiveness free of evil done,

And Love to all men 'neath the sun!

Land of our Birth, our Faith, our Pride,
For whose dear sake our fathers died;
O Motherland, we pledge to thee,
Head, heart, and hand through the years to be!

THE FATHERLAND

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

WHERE is the true man's fatherland?
Is it where he by chance is born?
Doth not the yearning spirit scorn
In such scant borders to be spanned?
Oh yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!

Is it alone where freedom is,

Where God is God and man is man?
Doth he not claim a broader span
For the soul's love of home than this?
Oh yes! his fatherland must be
As the blue heaven wide and free!

Where'er a human heart doth wear
Joy's myrtle-wreath or sorrow's gyves,
Where'er a human spirit strives

After a life more true and fair,

There is the true man's birthplace grand,
His is a world-wide fatherland!

Where'er a single slave doth pine,

Where'er one man may help another, Thank God for such a birthright, brother,That spot of earth is thine and mine! There is the true man's birthplace grand, His is a world-wide fatherland!

STANZAS ON FREEDOM

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

MEN! whose boast it is that ye
Come of fathers brave and free,
If there breathe on earth a slave,
Are ye truly free and brave?
If ye do not feel the chain,
When it works a brother's pain,
Are ye not base slaves indeed,
Slaves unworthy to be freed?

Women! who shall one day bear
Sons to breathe New England air,
If ye hear, without a blush,

Deeds to make the roused blood rush
Like red lava through your veins,
For your sisters now in chains,

Answer! are ye fit to be

Mothers of the brave and free?