THE BETTER WAY. Who serves his country best? Not he who, for a brief and stormy space, 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: He serves his country best Who joins the tide that lifts her nobly on, He serves his country best Who lives pure life, and doeth righteous deed, A stainless record which all men may read: This is the better way. No drop but serves the slowly lifting tide, When earth as on some evil dreams, Looks back upon her wars, And the white light of Christ outstreams, 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 alone where freedom is, Where God is God and man is man? As the blue heaven wide and free! Where'er a human heart doth wear There is the true man's birthplace grand, Where'er a single slave doth pine, Where'er one man may help another Thank God for such a birthright, brother- 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 out the false, ring in the true. Ring out the want, the care, the sin, The faithless coldness of the times; Ring out false pride in place and blood, The civic slander and the spite; Ring out a slowly-dying cause, And ancient forms of party strife; Ring in the valiant man and free, -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 But vain the benedicite Of tender, brooding sky; And vainly peaceful, smiling fields Unsoothed, unmoved, in nature's calm, A deadly, threatening human storm, To swift destruction now seemed doomed Before Procopius the Great The strongest walls went down. Ready they stood to face the charge; And out there poured, not armed men, The little children of the town, Whose bright eyes met their gaze Unversed in war's dread ways. The men threw all their weapons down 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, They filled, and with kind words of peace 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, Once more they bear within their arms Four centuries ago, When children saved old Naumburg town RECESSIONAL. God of our fathers, known of old- The tumult and the shouting dies- Far-called our navies melt away— 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 Or lesser breeds without the law- For heathen heart that puts her trust -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, Nation with nation, land with land, Unarmed shall live as comrades free; New arts shall bloom, of loftier mould, 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 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. |