THE BETTER WAY.

Who serves his country best?

Not he who, for a brief and stormy space,
Leads forth her armies to the fierce affray.
Short is the time of turmoil and unrest,
Long years of peace succeed it and replace:
There is a better way.

Who serves his country best?

Not he who guides her senates in debate,

And makes the laws which are her prop and stay;

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.

When earth as on some evil dreams,

Looks back upon her wars,

And the white light of Christ outstreams,
From the red disk of Mars,

His fame who led the stormy van

Of battle well may cease,

But never that which crowns the man

Whose victory is peace.

-SUSAN COOLIDGE.

-JOHN GREENLEAF WHITTIER.

THE FATHERLAND.

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!

-JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL

RING OUT THE OLD, RING IN THE NEW.

Ring out the old, ring in the new,
Ring, happy bells, across the snow;
The year is going, let him go;

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Ring out the want, the care, the sin,

The faithless coldness of the times;
Ring out, ring out my mournful rhymes,
But ring the fuller minstrel in.

Ring out false pride in place and blood,

The civic slander and the spite;
Ring in the love of truth and right,
Ring in the common love of good.

Ring out a slowly-dying cause,

And ancient forms of party strife;
Ring in the nobler modes of life,
With sweeter manners, purer laws.
Ring out old shapes of foul disease;
Ring out the narrowing lust of gold;
Ring out the thousand wars of old,
Ring in the thousand years of peace.

Ring in the valiant man and free,
The larger heart, the kindlier hand;
Ring out the darkness of the land,
Ring in the Christ that is to be.

-ALFRED TENNYSON.

THE CHERRY FESTIVAL AT NAUMBURG.

(A ballad founded on fact.)

Hard by the walls of Naumburg town,

Four hundred years ago,

Procopius his soldiers led

To fight their Saxon foe.

The blue sky bent above the earth

In benediction mute;

The tranquil fields reposed content
In blossom, grain, and fruit.

But vain the benedicite

Of tender, brooding sky;

And vainly peaceful, smiling fields
Gave eloquent reply.

Unsoothed, unmoved, in nature's calm,
The Hussite army lay,

A deadly, threatening human storm,
With Naumburg in its way.

To swift destruction now seemed doomed
The dear old Saxon town;

Before Procopius the Great

The strongest walls went down.
But soon upon the soft, calm air,
Came sound of tramping feet;
The Hussites quickly flew to arms,
Their hated foe to meet.

Ready they stood to face the charge;
The great gate opened wide,

And out there poured, not armed men,
But, marching side by side,

The little children of the town,

Whose bright eyes met their gaze
With innocence and courage all

Unversed in war's dread ways.

The men threw all their weapons down
At sight so strange and fair;

They took the children in their arms,

They stroked their flaxen hair,

They kissed their cheeks and sweet red lips,

They told how back at home

They'd left such little ones as these,

And then they bade them come.

To cherry orchards close at hand,
And there they stripped the trees
Of branches rich with clustered fruit;
Their little arms with these

They filled, and with kind words of peace
They sent them back to town.
The soldiers then all marched away,

Nor thought of war's renown.

And now each year at cherry time,

In Naumburg you may see

The little children celebrate

This strange, sweet victory.

Once more the sound of tramping feet

Is heard as, side by side,

They march throughout the quaint old town,
In childhood's joyous pride.

Once more they bear within their arms
Green branches, thro' whose leaves
Ripe cherries gleam, that tell a tale
More strange than fancy weaves,
About a bloodless battle fought

Four centuries ago,

When children saved old Naumburg town
By conquering its foe.

RECESSIONAL.

God of our fathers, known of old-
Lord of our far-flung battle line-
Beneath whose awful Hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

The tumult and the shouting dies-
The Captains and the Kings depart-
Still stands Thine ancient Sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

Far-called our navies melt away—
On dune and headland sinks the fire-

Lo, all our pomp of yesterday

Is one with Nineveh and Tyre!

Judge of the Nations, spare us yet,

Lest we forget-lest we forget!

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not Thee in awe-
Such boasting as the Gentiles use,

Or lesser breeds without the law-
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget-lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard-
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not Thee to guard-
For frantic boasts and foolish word,
Thy mercy on Thy people, Lord.

-RUDYARD KIPLING.

THESE THINGS SHALL BE.

These things shall be! A loftier race

Than e'er the world hath known shall rise, With flame of freedom in their souls

And light of knowledge in their eyes.

They shall be gentle, brave, and strong,
Not to spill human blood, but dare
All that may plant man's lordship firm
On earth and fire and sea and air.

Nation with nation, land with land,

Unarmed shall live as comrades free;
In every human heart and brain shall throb
The pulse of one fraternity.

New arts shall bloom, of loftier mould,
And mightier music thrill the skies;

And every life shall be a song,

When all the earth is paradise.

There shall be no more sin nor shame,

And wrath and wrong shall fettered lie; For man shall be at one with God

In bonds of firm necessity.

OH, BEAUTIFUL, MY COUNTRY.

(Tune: Webb.)

Oh, Beautiful, my country,

Be thine a nobler care

Than all the wealth of commerce,

Thy harvests waving fair;

Be it thy pride to lift up

The manhood of the poor;

Be thou to the oppressed
Fair Freedom's open door!

For thee our fathers suffered;

For thee they toiled and prayed;

Upon thy holy altar

Their willing lives they laid.

Thou hast no common birthright;

Grand memories on thee shine;

The blood of pilgrim nations

Commingled flows in thine.