Poems with Power to Strengthen the Soul — Background and Themes

What was vague and dim is brought into light. What was only half conceived, and so but half felt, is made to grip the soul with power. Poetry is of the very highest value for the inspiration and guidance of life, for calling out the emotions and opening up spiritual visions. It carries truths not only into the understanding, but into the heart, where they are likely to have the most direct effect on conduct.

In the language of Robert Southey, I commit these pages to the Christian public, with a sincere belief that much benefit will result to all who shall read them:

"Go forth, little book, from this my solitude; I cast thee on the waters,--go thy ways; And if, as I believe, thy vein be good, The world will find thee after many days. Be it with thee according to thy worth; Go, little book! in faith I send thee forth."

JAMES MUDGE. Malden, Mass.

CHIVALRY, NOBILITY, HONOR, TRUTH

I like the man who faces what he must, With step triumphant and a heart of cheer; Who fights the daily battle without fear; Sees his hopes fail, yet keeps unfaltering trust That God is God; that somehow, true and just, His plans work out for mortals; not a tear Is shed when fortune, which the world holds dear, Falls from his grasp: better, with love, a crust Than living in dishonor: envies not, Nor loses faith in man; but does his best, Nor ever murmurs at his humbler lot, But, with a smile and words of hope, gives zest To every toiler: he alone is great Who by a life heroic conquers fate.

--Sarah Knowles Bolton.

DEFEATED YET TRIUMPHANT

They never fail who die In a great cause. The block may soak their gore; Their heads may sodden in the sun; their limbs Be strung to city gates and castle walls; But still their spirit walks abroad. Though years Elapse and others share as dark a doom, They but augment the deep and sweeping thoughts Which overpower all others and conduct The world, at last, to freedom.

--George Gordon Byron.

He has done the work of a true man-- Crown him, honor him, love him; Weep over him, tears of woman, Stoop, manliest brows, above him!

For the warmest of hearts is frozen; The freest of hands is still; And the gap in our picked and chosen The long years may not fill.

No duty could overtask him, No need his will outrun: Or ever our lips could ask him, His hands the work had done.

He forgot his own life for others, Himself to his neighbor lending. Found the Lord in his suffering brothers, And not in the clouds descending.

And he saw, ere his eye was darkened, The sheaves of the harvest-bringing; And knew, while his ear yet hearkened, The voice of the reapers singing.

Never rode to the wrong's redressing A worthier paladin. He has heard the Master's blessing, "Good and faithful, enter in!"

--John Greenleaf Whittier.

They outtalked thee, hissed thee, tore thee? Better men fared thus before thee; Fired their ringing shot and pass'd, Hotly charged--and sank at last. Charge once more, then, and be dumb! Let the victors, when they come, When the forts of folly fall, Find thy body by the wall!

Before the monstrous wrong he sets him down-- One man against a stone-walled city of sin. For centuries those walls have been abuilding; Smooth porphyry, they slope and coldly glass The flying storm and wheeling sun. No chink, No crevice, lets the thinnest arrow in. He fights alone, and from the cloudy ramparts A thousand evil faces gibe and jeer him. Let him lie down and die: what is the right, And where is justice, in a world like this? But by and by earth shakes herself, impatient; And down, in one great roar of ruin, crash Watch-tower and citadel and battlements. When the red dust has cleared, the lonely soldier Stands with strange thoughts beneath the friendly stars.

--Edward Rowland Sill.

So he died for his faith. That is fine-- More than most of us do. But, say, can you add to that line That he lived for it, too? In his death he bore witness at last As a martyr to truth. Did his life do the same in the past From the days of his youth? It is easy to die. Men have died For a wish or a whim-- From bravado or passion or pride. Was it harder for him? But to live--every day to live out All the truth that he dreamt, While his friends met his conduct with doubt And the world with contempt. Was it thus that he plodded ahead, Never turning aside? Then we'll talk of the life that he lived. Never mind how he died.

The star of the unconquered will, He rises in my breast, Serene, and resolute, and still, And calm, and self-possessed.

And thou, too, whosoe'er thou art, That readest this brief psalm, As one by one thy hopes depart, Be resolute and calm.

Oh, fear not in a world like this, And thou shalt know erelong,-- Know how sublime a thing it is To suffer and be strong.

--Henry Wadsworth Longfellow.

THE NOBLE ARMY OF MARTYRS PRAISE THEE

Not they alone who from the bitter strife Came forth victorious, yielding willingly That which they deem most precious, even life, Content to suffer all things, Christ, for Thee; Not they alone whose feet so firmly trod The pathway ending in rack, sword and flame, Foreseeing death, yet faithful to their Lord, Enduring for His sake the pain and shame; Not they alone have won the martyr's palm, Not only from their life proceeds the eternal psalm.

For earth hath martyrs now, a saintly throng; Each day unnoticed do we pass them by; 'Mid busy crowds they calmly move along, Bearing a hidden cross, how patiently! Not theirs the sudden anguish, swift and keen, Their hearts are worn and wasted with small cares, With daily griefs and thrusts from foes unseen; Troubles and trials that take them unawares; Theirs is a lingering, silent martyrdom; They weep through weary years, and long for rest to come.

They weep, but murmur not; it is God's will, And they have learned to bend their own to his; Simply enduring, knowing that each ill Is but the herald of some future bliss; Striving and suffering, yet so silently They know it least who seem to know them best. Faithful and true through long adversity They work and wait until God gives them rest; These surely share with those of bygone days The palm-branch and the crown, and swell their song of praise.

'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity, Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won; Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former work stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast; Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead, unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause, And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be.

--William Wordsworth.

Aground the man who seeks a noble end Not angels but divinities attend.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

ROBERT BROWNING'S MESSAGE

Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!"

Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men: Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast?

Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!

For thence--a paradox Which comforts while it mocks-- Shall life succeed in that it seems to fail: What I aspired to be, And was not, comforts me: A brute I might have been, but would not sink i' the scale.

Not on the vulgar mass Called "work" must sentence pass, Things done, that took the eye and had the price; O'er which, from level stand, The low world laid its hand, Found straightway to its mind, could value in a trice:

But all, the world's coarse thumb And finger failed to plumb, So passed in making up the main account; All instincts immature, All purposes unsure, That weighed not as his work, yet swelled the man's amount:

Thoughts hardly to be packed Into a narrow act, Fancies that broke through language and escaped; All I could never be, All, men ignored in me, This I was worth to God, whose wheel the pitcher shaped.

Fool! All that is, at all, Lasts ever, past recall; Earth changes, but thy soul and God stand sure: What entered into thee _That_ was, is, and shall be: Time's wheel runs back or stops; Potter and clay endure.

--From "Rabbi Ben Ezra."

Once to every man and nation comes the moment to decide, In the strife of Truth with Falsehood, for the good or evil side; Some great cause, God's new Messiah, offering each the bloom or blight, Parts the goats upon the left hand, and the sheep upon the right, And the choice goes by forever 'twixt that darkness and that light.

Careless seems the great Avenger; history's pages but record One death-grapple in the darkness 'twixt old systems and the Word; Truth forever on the scaffold, Wrong forever on the throne-- Yet that scaffold sways the future, and, behind the dim unknown, Standeth God within the shadow, keeping watch, above his own.

Then to side with Truth is noble when we share her wretched crust, Ere her cause bring fame and profit, and 'tis prosperous to be just; Then it is the brave man chooses, while the coward stands aside, Doubting in his abject spirit, till his Lord is crucified, And the multitude make virtue of the faith they had denied.

Count me o'er earth's chosen heroes--they were souls that stood alone While the men they agonized for hurled the contumelious stone; Stood serene, and down the future saw the golden beam incline To the side of perfect justice, mastered by their faith divine, By one man's plain truth to manhood and to God's supreme design.

By the light of burning heretics Christ's bleeding feet I track, Toiling up new Calvaries ever with the cross that turns not back, And these mounts of anguish number how each generation learned One new word of that grand _Credo_ which in prophet-hearts hath burned Since the first man stood God-conquered with his face to heaven upturned.

For Humanity sweeps onward: where to-day the martyr stands, On the morrow crouches Judas with the silver in his hands; Far in front the cross stands ready and the crackling fagots burn, While the hooting mob of yesterday in silent awe return To glean up the scattered ashes into History's golden urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves; Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;-- Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their time? Turn those tracks toward Past or Future that make Plymouth Rock sublime?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our sires, Smothering in their holy ashes Freedom's new-lit altar-fires; Shall we make their creed our jailer? shall we in our haste to slay, From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away To light up the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; Time makes ancient good uncouth; They must upward still, and onward, who would keep abreast of Truth; Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! we ourselves must Pilgrims be, Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter sea, Nor attempt the Future's portal with the Past's blood-rusted key.

--James Russell Lowell.

Behind him lay the gray Azores, Behind the Gates of Hercules; Before him not the ghost of shores, Before him only shoreless seas. The good mate said: "Now, we must pray, For lo! the very stars are _gone_, Speak, Admiral, what shall I say?" "Why say, 'Sail on! sail on! and on!'"

"My men grow mutinous day by day; My men grow ghastly wan and weak." The stout mate thought of home; a spray Of salt wave washed his swarthy cheek. "What shall I say, brave Admiral, say, If we sight naught but seas at dawn?" "Why, you shall say at break of day, 'Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!'"

They sailed and sailed, as winds might blow, Until at last the blanched mate said: "Why, now not even God would know Should I and all my men fall dead. These very winds forget their way, For God from these dread seas is gone. Now speak, brave Admiral, speak and say--" He said, "Sail on! sail on! and on!"

They sailed. They sailed. Then spoke the mate: "This mad sea shows its teeth to-night. He curls his lip, he lies in wait, With lifted teeth, as if to bite! Brave Admiral, say but one good word. What shall we do when hope is gone?" The words leapt as a leaping sword, "Sail on! sail on! sail on! and on!"

Then, pale and worn, he kept his deck, And peered through darkness. Ah, that night Of all dark nights! And then a speck-- A light! A light! A light! It grew, a starlit flag unfurled! It grew to be Time's burst of dawn: He gained a world; he gave that world Its grandest lesson: "On, and on!"

The Son of God goes forth to war, A kingly crown to gain; His blood-red banner streams afar; Who follows in his train.

Who best can drink His cup of woe, And triumph over pain, Who patient bears His cross below-- He follows in His train.

A glorious band, the chosen few, On whom the Spirit came; Twelve valiant saints, their hope they knew, And mocked the cross and flame.

They climbed the dizzy steep to heaven Through peril, toil and pain; O God! to us may grace be given To follow in their train!

Did you tackle that trouble that came your way With a resolute heart and cheerful, Or hide your face from the light of day With a craven soul and fearful? O, a trouble is a ton, or a trouble is an ounce, Or a trouble is what you make it, And it isn't the fact that you're hurt that counts, But only--how did you take it?

You are beaten to earth? Well, well, what's that? Come up with a smiling face. It's nothing against you to fall down flat, But to lie there--that's disgrace. The harder you're thrown, why, the higher you bounce; Be proud of your blackened eye! It isn't the fact that you're licked that counts; It's how did you fight--and why?

And though you be done to the death, what then? If you battled the best you could. If you played your part in the world of men, Why, the Critic will call it good. Death comes with a crawl or comes with a pounce, And whether he's slow or spry, It isn't the fact that you're dead that counts, But only--how did you die?

--Edmund Vance Cooke.

That which he knew he uttered, Conviction made him strong; And with undaunted courage He faced and fought the wrong. No power on earth could silence him Whom love and faith made brave; And though four hundred years have gone Men strew with flowers his grave.

A frail child born to poverty, A German miner's son; A poor monk searching in his cell, What honors he has won! The nations crown him faithful, A man whom truth made free; God give us for these easier times More men as real as he!

--Marianne Farningham.

Flung to the heedless winds, Or on the waters cast, The martyrs' ashes, watched, Shall gathered be at last; And from that scattered dust, Around us and abroad, Shall spring a plenteous seed Of witnesses for God.

The Father hath received Their latest living breath; And vain is Satan's boast Of victory in their death; Still, still, though dead, they speak, And, trumpet-tongued, proclaim To many a wakening land, The one availing name.

--Martin Luther, tr. by John A. Messenger.

Stainless soldier on the walls, Knowing this--and knows no more-- Whoever fights, whoever falls, Justice conquers evermore, Justice after as before; And he who battles on her side, God, though he were ten times slain, Crowns him victor glorified, Victor over death and pain.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

The man is thought a knave, or fool, Or bigot, plotting crime, Who, for the advancement of his kind, Is wiser than his time. For him the hemlock shall distil; For him the axe be bared; For him the gibbet shall be built; For him the stake prepared. Him shall the scorn and wrath of men Pursue with deadly aim; And malice, envy, spite, and lies, Shall desecrate his name. But Truth shall conquer at the last, For round and round we run; And ever the Right comes uppermost, And ever is Justice done.

Pace through thy cell, old Socrates, Cheerily to and fro; Trust to the impulse of thy soul, And let the poison flow. They may shatter to earth the lamp of clay That holds a light divine, But they cannot quench the fire of thought By any such deadly wine. They cannot blot thy spoken words From the memory of man By all the poison ever was brewed Since time its course began. To-day abhorred, to-morrow adored, For round and round we run, And ever the Truth comes uppermost, And ever is Justice done.

Plod in thy cave, gray anchorite; Be wiser than thy peers; Augment the range of human power, And trust to coming years. They may call thee wizard, and monk accursed, And load thee with dispraise; Thou wert born five hundred years too soon For the comfort of thy days; But not too soon for human kind. Time hath reward in store; And the demons of our sires become The saints that we adore. The blind can see, the slave is lord, So round and round we run; And ever the Wrong is proved to be wrong And ever is Justice done.

Keep, Galileo, to thy thought, And nerve thy soul to bear; They may gloat o'er the senseless words they wring From the pangs of thy despair; They may veil their eyes, but they cannot hide The sun's meridian glow; The heel of a priest may tread thee down And a tyrant work thee woe; But never a truth has been destroyed; They may curse it and call it crime; Pervert and betray, or slander and slay Its teachers for a time. But the sunshine aye shall light the sky, As round and round we run; And the Truth shall ever come uppermost, And Justice shall be done.

And live there now such men as these-- With thoughts like the great of old? Many have died in their misery, And left their thought untold; And many live, and are ranked as mad, And are placed in the cold world's ban, For sending their bright, far-seeing souls Three centuries in the van. They toil in penury and grief, Unknown, if not maligned; Forlorn, forlorn, bearing the scorn Of the meanest of mankind! But yet the world goes round and round, And the genial seasons run; And ever the Truth comes uppermost, And ever is Justice done.

We cannot kindle when we will The fire which in the heart resides. The spirit bloweth and is still; In mystery our soul abides: But tasks in hours of insight willed Can be through hours of gloom fulfilled.

With aching hands and bleeding feet We dig and heap, lay stone on stone; We bear the burden and the heat Of the long day, and wish 'twere done. Not till the hours of light return, All we have built do we discern.