It Can Be Done - Joseph Morris
Submission: "Wrong of course must ever be
Because it ever was. 'Tis not for me
To seek a change; to strike the maiden blow.
'Tis best to bow the head and not to see;
'Tis best to dream, that we need never know
The truth. To turn our eyes away from woe."
Perhaps. But ah--I pray for keener sight,
And may I not grow weary of the fight.
_Miriam Teichner._
A PRAYER
Garibaldi, the Italian patriot, said to his men: "I do not promise you
ease; I do not promise you comfort. I promise you hardship, weariness,
suffering; but I promise you victory."
I do not pray for peace,
Nor ask that on my path
The sounds of war shall shrill no more,
The way be clear of wrath.
But this I beg thee, Lord,
Steel Thou my heart with might,
And in the strife that men call life,
Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray for arms,
Nor shield to cover me.
What though I stand with empty hand,
So it be valiantly!
Spare me the coward's fear--
Questioning wrong or right:
Lord, among these mine enemies,
Grant me the strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou
Keep me from any wound,
Though I fall low from thrust and blow,
Forced fighting to the ground;
But give me wit to hide
My hurt from all men's sight,
And for my need the while I bleed,
Lord, grant me strength to fight.
I do not pray that Thou
Shouldst grant me victory;
Enough to know that from my foe
I have no will to flee.
Beaten and bruised and banned,
Flung like a broken sword,
Grant me this thing for conquering--
Let me die fighting, Lord!
_Theodosia Garrison._
From "The Earth Cry."
STABILITY
Whom do we wish for our friends and allies? On whom would we wish to
depend in a time of need? Those who are not the slaves of fortune, but
have made the most of both her buffets and her rewards. Those who
control their fears and rash impulses, and do not give way to sudden
emotion. Amid confusion and disaster men like these will stand, as
Jackson did at Bull Run, like a veritable stone wall.
Since my dear soul was mistress of her choice
And could of men distinguish, her election
Hath sealed thee for herself; for thou hast been
As one, in suffering all, that suffers nothing,
A man that fortune's buffets and rewards
Hast ta'en with equal thanks; and bless'd are those
Whose blood and judgment are so well commingled
That they are not a pipe for fortune's finger
To sound what stop she please. Give me that man
That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core, ay, in my heart of heart,
As I do thee.
_William Shakespeare._
THE BARS OF FATE
"There ain't no such beast," ejaculated a farmer as he gazed at the
rhinoceros at a circus. His incredulity did not of course do away with
the existence of the creature. But our incredulity about many of our
difficulties will do away with them. They exist chiefly in our
imaginations.
I stood before the bars of Fate
And bowed my head disconsolate;
So high they seemed, so fierce their frown.
I thought no hand could break them down.
Beyond them I could hear the songs
Of valiant men who marched in throngs;
And joyful women, fair and free,
Looked back and waved their hands to me.
I did not cry "Too late! too late!"
Or strive to rise, or rail at Fate,
Or pray to God. My coward heart,
Contented, played its foolish part.
So still I sat, the tireless bee
Sped o'er my head, with scorn for me,
And birds who build their nests in air
Beheld me, as I were not there.
From twig to twig, before my face,
The spiders wove their curious lace,
As they a curtain fine would see
Between the hindering bars and me.
Then, sudden change! I heard the call
Of wind and wave and waterfall;
From heaven above and earth below
A clear command--"ARISE AND GO!"
I upward sprang in all my strength,
And stretched my eager hands at length
To break the bars--no bars were there;
My fingers fell through empty air!
_Ellen M.H. Gates._
From "To the Unborn Peoples."
ULTIMATE ACT
It is well to have purposes we can carry out. It is also well to have
purposes so lofty that we cannot carry them out; for these latter are
the mighty inner fires which warm our being at its core and without
which our impulse to do even the lesser things would be feeble.
I had rather cut man's purpose deeper than
Achieving it be crowned as conqueror;
To will divinely is to accomplish more
Than a mere deed: it fills anew the wan
Aspect of life with blood; it draws upon
Sources beyond the common reach and lore
Of mortals, to replenish at its core
The God-impassioned energy of man.
And herewith all the worlds of deed and thought
Quicken again with meaning--pulse and thrill
With Deity--that had forgot His touch.
There is not any act avails so much
As this invisible wedding of the will
With Life--yea, though it seem to accomplish naught.
_Henry Bryan Binns._
From "The Free Spirit."
HE WHOM A DREAM HATH POSSESSED
The man possessed by a vision is not perplexed, troubled, restricted, as
the rest of us are. He wanders yet is not lost from home, sees a million
dawns yet never night descending, faces death and destruction and in
them finds triumph.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of doubting,
For mist and the blowing of winds and the mouthing of words he scorns;
Not the sinuous speech of schools he hears, but a knightly shouting,
And never comes darkness down, yet he greeteth a million morns.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of roaming;
All roads and the flowing of waves and the speediest flight he knows,
But wherever his feet are set, his soul is forever homing,
And going, he comes, and coming he heareth a call and goes.
He whom a dream hath possessed knoweth no more of sorrow,
At death and the dropping of leaves and the fading of suns he smiles,
For a dream remembers no past and scorns the desire of a morrow,
And a dream in a sea of doom sets surely the ultimate isles.
He whom a dream hath possessed treads the impalpable marches,
From the dust of the day's long road he leaps to a laughing star,
And the ruin of worlds that fall he views from eternal arches,
And rides God's battlefield in a flashing and golden car.
_Sheamus O Sheel._
From "The Lyric Year."
SUCCESS
As necessity is the mother of invention, strong desire is the mother of
attainment.
If you want a thing bad enough
To go out and fight for it,
Work day and night for it,
Give up your time and your peace and your sleep for it
If only desire of it
Makes you quite mad enough
Never to tire of it,
Makes you hold all other things tawdry and cheap for it
If life seems all empty and useless without it
And all that you scheme and you dream is about it,
If gladly you'll sweat for it,
Fret for it,
Plan for it,
Lose all your terror of God or man for it,
If you'll simply go after that thing that you want,
With all your capacity,
Strength and sagacity,
Faith, hope and confidence, stern pertinacity,
If neither cold poverty, famished and gaunt,
Nor sickness nor pain
Of body or brain
Can turn you away from the thing that you want,
If dogged and grim you besiege and beset it,
_You'll get it!_
_Berton Braley._
From "Things As They Are."
PLAY THE GAME
The Duke of Wellington said that the battle of Waterloo was won on the
cricket fields of Eton. English sport at its best is admirable; it asks
outward triumph if possible, but far more it asks that one do his best
till the very end and treat his opponent with courtesy and fairness. The
spirit thus instilled at school has again and again been carried in
after life into the large affairs of the nation.
There's a breathless hush in the Close to-night--
Ten to make and the match to win--
A bumping pitch and a blinding light,
An hour to play and the last man in.
And it's not for the sake of a ribboned coat
Or the selfish hope of a season's fame,
But his Captain's hand on his shoulder smote;
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
The sand of the desert is sodden red--
Red with the wreck of a square that broke;
The Gatling's jammed and the colonel dead,
And the regiment's blind with dust and smoke.
The river of death has brimmed his banks,
And England's far and Honor a name,
But the voice of a schoolboy rallies the ranks,
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
This is the word that year by year,
While in her place the School is set,
Every one of her sons must hear,
And none that hears it dare forget.
This they all with a joyful mind
Bear through life like a torch in flame,
And falling, fling to the host behind--
"Play up! Play up! And play the game!"
_Henry Newbolt._
From "Admirals All, and Other Verses."
THE MAN WHO FRETS AT WORLDLY STRIFE
"Lord, what fools these mortals be!" exclaims Puck in _A Mid-summer
Night's Dream. _And well might the fairy marvel who sees folk vexing
themselves over matters that nine times out of ten come to nothing. Much
wiser is the man who smiles at misfortunes, even when they are real ones
and affect him personally. Charles Lamb once cheerfully helped to hiss
off the stage a play he himself had written.
The man who frets at worldly strife
Grows sallow, sour, and thin;
Give us the lad whose happy life
Is one perpetual grin:
He, Midas-like, turns all to gold--
He smiles when others sigh,
Enjoys alike the hot and cold,
And laughs though wet or dry.
There's fun in everything we meet,--
The greatest, worst, and best;
Existence is a merry treat,
And every speech a jest:
* * * * *
So, come what may, the man's in luck
Who turns it all to glee,
And laughing, cries, with honest Puck,
"Good Lord! what fools ye be."
_Joseph Rodman Drake._
SERENITY
Calmness of mind to face anything the future may have in store is
expressed in this quatrain.
Here's a sigh to those who love me
And a smile to those who hate;
And whatever sky's above me,
Here's a heart for every fate.
_Lord Byron._
HERE'S HOPIN'
An optimist has been described as a man who orders oysters at a
restaurant and expects to find a pearl to pay the bill with. This of
course is not optimism, but brazen brainlessness. Yet somehow the pearls
come only to those who expect them.
Year ain't been the very best;--
Purty hard by trouble pressed;
But the rough way leads to rest,--
Here's hopin'!
Maybe craps way short; the rills
Couldn't turn the silent mills;
But the light's behind the hills,--
Here's hopin'!
Where we planted roses sweet
Thorns come up an' pricked the feet;
But this old world's hard to beat,--
Here's hopin'!
P'r'aps the buildin' that we planned
'Gainst the cyclone couldn't stand;
But, thank God we've got the _land_,--
Here's hopin'!
Maybe flowers we hoped to save
Have been scattered on a grave;
But the heart's still beatin' brave,--
Here's hopin'!
That we'll see the mornin' light--
That the very darkest night
Can't hide heaven from our sight,--
Here's hopin'!
_Frank L. Stanton._
From "The Atlanta Constitution."
CLEON AND I
Toward the end of the yacht race in which the _America_ won her historic
cup the English monarch, who was one of the spectators, inquired: "Which
boat is first?" "The _America_ seems to be first, your majesty," replied
an aide. "And which is second?" asked the monarch. "Your majesty, there
seems to be no second." So it is in the race for happiness. The man who
is natural, who is open and kind of heart, is always first. The man who
is merely rich or sheltered or proud is not even a good second.
Cleon hath a million acres, ne'er a one have I;
Cleon dwelleth in a palace, in a cottage I;
Cleon hath a dozen fortunes, not a penny I;
Yet the poorer of the twain is Cleon, and not I.
Cleon, true, possesses acres, but the landscape I;
Half the charm to me it yieldeth money can not buy,
Cleon harbors sloth and dullness, freshening vigor I;
He in velvet, I in fustian, richer man am I.
Cleon is a slave to grandeur, free as thought am I;
Cleon fees a score of doctors, need of none have I;
Wealth-surrounded, care-environed, Cleon fears to die;
Death may come, he'll find me ready, happier man am I.
Cleon sees no charm in nature, in a daisy I;
Cleon hears no anthems ringing in the sea and sky;
Nature sings to me forever, earnest listener I;
State for state, with all attendants, who would change?
Not I.
_Charles Mackay_.
THE PESSIMIST
Most of our ills and troubles are not very serious when we come to
examine the realities of them. Or perhaps we expect too much. An old
negro was complaining that the railroad would not pay him for his mule,
which it had killed--nay, would not even give him back his rope. "What
rope?" he was asked. "Why, sah," answered he, "de rope dat I tied de
mule on de track wif."
Nothing to do but work,
Nothing to eat but food,
Nothing to wear but clothes
To keep one from going nude.
Nothing to breathe but air
Quick as a flash 'tis gone;
Nowhere to fall but off,
Nowhere to stand but on.
Nothing to comb but hair,
Nowhere to sleep but in bed,
Nothing to weep but tears,
Nothing to bury but dead.
Nothing to sing but songs,
Ah, well, alas! alack!
Nowhere to go but out,
Nowhere to come but back.
Nothing to see but sights,
Nothing to quench but thirst,
Nothing to have but what we've got;
Thus thro' life we are cursed.
Nothing to strike but a gait;
Everything moves that goes.
Nothing at all but common sense
Can ever withstand these woes.
_Ben King_.
From "Ben King's Verse."
A PROBLEM TO BE SOLVED
There are irritating, troublesome people about us. Of what use is it to
be irritating in our turn or to add to the trouble? Most offenders have
their better side. Our wisest course is to find this and upon the basis
of it build up a better relationship.
There's a fellow in your office
Who complains and carps and whines
Till you'd almost do a favor
To his heirs and his assigns.
But I'll tip you to a secret
(And this chap's of course involved)--
He's no foeman to be fought with;
He's a problem to be solved.
There's a duffer in your district
Whose sheer cussedness is such
He has neither pride nor manners--
No, nor gumption, overmuch.
'Twould be great to up and tell him
Where to go. But be resolved--
He's no foeman to be fought with,
Just a problem to be solved.
This old earth's (I'm sometimes thinking)
One menagerie of freaks--
Folks invested with abnormal
Lungs or brains or galls or beaks.
But we're not just shrieking monkeys
In a dim, vast cage revolved;
We're not foemen to be fought with,
Merely problems to be solved.
_St. Clair Adams_.
PROSPICE
Here the poet looks forward to death. He does not ask for an easy death;
he does not wish to creep past an experience which all men sooner or
later must face, and which many men have faced so heroically. He has
fought well in life; he wishes to make the last fight too. The poem was
written shortly after the death of Mrs. Browning, and the closing lines
refer to her.
Fear death?--to feel the fog in my throat,
The mist in my face,
When the snows begin, and the blasts denote
I am nearing the place,
The power of the night, the press of the storm,
The post of the foe;
Where he stands, the Arch Fear in a visible form,
Yet the strong man must go:
For the journey is done and the summit attained,
And the barriers fall,
Though a battle's to fight ere the guerdon be gained,
The reward of it all.
I was ever a fighter, so--one fight more,
The best and the last!
I would hate that death bandaged my eyes, and forbore.
And bade me creep past.
No! let me taste the whole of it, fare like my peers
The heroes of old,
Bear the brunt, in a minute pay glad life's arrears
Of pain, darkness and cold.
For sudden the worst turns the best to the brave,
The black minute's at end,
And the elements' rage, the fiend-voices that rave,
Shall dwindle, shall blend,
Shall change, shall become first a peace out of pain,
Then a light, then thy breast,
O thou soul of my soul! I shall clasp thee again,
And with God be the rest!
_Robert Browning_.
THE GREATNESS OF THE SOUL
Geologists tell us that in the long processes of the ages mountains have
been raised and leveled, continents formed and washed away. Astronomers
tell us that in space are countless worlds, many of them doubtless
inhabited--perhaps by creatures of a lower type than we, perhaps by
creatures of a higher. The magnitude of these changes and of these
worlds makes the imagination reel. But on one thing we can rely--the
greatness of the human soul. On one thing we can confidently build--the
men whose spirit is lofty, divine.
For tho' the Giant Ages heave the hill
And break the shore, and evermore
Make and break, and work their will;
Tho' world on world in myriad myriads roll
Round us, each with different powers,
And other forms of life than ours,
What know we greater than the soul?
On God and Godlike men we build our trust.
_Alfred Tennyson_.
HEINELET
What sheer perseverance can accomplish, even in matters of the heart, is
revealed in this little poem written in Heine's mood of mingled
seriousness and gayety.
He asked if she ever could love him.
She answered him, no, on the spot.
He asked if she ever could love him.
She assured him again she could not.
He asked if she ever could love him.
She laughed till his blushes he hid.
He asked if she ever could love him.
By God, she admitted she did.
_Gamaliel Bradford_.
From "Shadow Verses."
STAND FORTH!
The human spirit can triumph over difficulties, as flowers bloom along
the edge of the Alpine snow.
Stand forth, my soul, and grip thy woe,
Buckle the sword and face thy foe.
What right hast thou to be afraid
When all the universe will aid?
Ten thousand rally to thy name,
Horses and chariots of flame.
Do others fear? Do others fail?
_My soul must grapple and prevail_.
My soul must scale the mountainside
And with the conquering army ride--
Stand forth, my soul!
Stand forth, my soul, and take command.
'Tis I, thy master, bid thee stand.
Claim thou thy ground and thrust thy foe,
Plead not thine enemy should go.
Let others cringe! My soul is free,
No hostile host can conquer me.
There lives no circumstance so great
Can make me yield, or doubt my fate.
My soul must know what kings have known.
Must reach and claim its rightful throne--
Stand forth, my soul!
I ask no truce, I have no qualms,
I seek no quarter and no alms.
Let those who will obey the sod,
My soul sprang from the living God.
'Tis I, the king, who bid thee stand;
Grasp with thy hand my royal hand--
Stand forth!
_Angela Morgan_.
From "The Hour Has Struck."
[Illustration: WALT MASON]
LIONS AND ANTS
Once a hunter met a lion near the hungry critter's lair, and the
way that lion mauled him was decidedly unfair; but the hunter
never whimpered when the surgeons, with their thread, sewed up
forty-seven gashes in his mutilated head; and he showed the
scars in triumph, and they gave him pleasant fame, and he
always blessed the lion that had camped upon his frame. Once
that hunter, absent minded, sat upon a hill of ants, and about
a million bit him, and you should have seen him dance! And he
used up lots of language of a deep magenta tint, and
apostrophized the insects in a style unfit to print. And it's
thus with worldly troubles; when the big ones come along, we
serenely go to meet them, feeling valiant, bold and strong, but
the weary little worries with their poisoned stings and smarts,
put the lid upon our courage, make us gray, and break our
hearts.
_Walt Mason_.
From "Walt Mason, His Book."
LIFE, NOT DEATH
Sometimes life is so unsatisfying that we think we should like to be rid
of it. But we really are not longing for death; we are longing for more
life.
Whatever crazy sorrow saith,
No life that breathes with human breath
Has ever truly longed for death.
'Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant,
Oh life, not death, for which we pant;
More life, and fuller, that I want.
_Alfred Tennyson_.
THE UNMUSICAL SOLOIST
In any sort of athletic contest a man who individually is good--perhaps
even of the very best--may be a poor member of the team because he
wishes to do all the playing himself and will not co-operate with his
fellows. Every coach knows how such a man hashes the game. The same
thing is true in business or in anything else where many people work
together; a really capable man often fails because he hogs the center of
the stage and wants to be the whole show. To seek petty, immediate
triumphs instead of earning and waiting for the big, silent approval of
one's own conscience and of those who understand, is a mark of
inferiority. It is also a barrier to usefulness, for an egotistical man
is necessarily selfish and a selfish man cannot co-operate.
Music hath charms--at least it should;
Even a homely voice sounds good
That sings a cheerful, gladsome song
That shortens the way, however long.
A screechy fife, a bass drum's beat
Is wonderful music to marching feet;
A scratchy fiddle or banjo's thump
May tickle the toes till they want to jump.
But one musician fills the air
With discords that jar folks everywhere.
A pity it is he ever was born--
The discordant fellow who toots his own horn.
He gets in the front where all can see--
"Now turn the spot-light right on me,"
He says, and sings in tones sonorous
His own sweet halleluiah chorus.
Refrain and verse are both the same--
The pronoun I or his own name.
He trumpets his worth with such windy tooting
That louder it sounds than cowboys shooting.
This man's a nuisance wherever he goes,
For the world soon tires of the chap who blows.
Whether mighty in station or hoer of corn,
Unwelcome's the fellow who toots his own horn.
The poorest woodchopper makes the most sound;
A poor cook clatters the most pans around;
The rattling spoke carries least of the load;
And jingling pennies pay little that's owed;
A rooster crows but lays no eggs;
A braggart blows but drives no pegs.
He works out of harmony with any team,
For others are skim milk and he is the cream.
"The world," so far as he can see,
"Consists of a few other folks and ME."
He richly deserves to be held in scorn--
The ridiculous fellow who toots his own horn.
_Joseph Morris_.
ON DOWN THE ROAD
Hazlitt said that the defeat of the Whigs could be read in the shifting
and irresolute countenance of Charles James Fox, and the triumph of the
Tories in Pitt's "aspiring nose." The empires of the Montezumas are
conquered by men who, like Cortez, risk everything in the enterprise and
make retreat impossible by burning their ships behind them.
Hold to the course, though the storms are about you;
Stick to the road where the banner still flies;
Fate and his legions are ready to rout you--
Give 'em both barrels--and aim for their eyes.
Life's not a rose bed, a dream or a bubble,
A living in clover beneath cloudless skies;
And Fate hates a fighter who's looking for trouble,
So give 'im both barrels--and shoot for the eyes.
Fame never comes to the loafers and sitters,
Life's full of knots in a shifting disguise;
Fate only picks on the cowards and quitters,
So give 'em both barrels--and aim for the eyes.
_Grantland Rice_.
From "The Sportlight."
MEETIN' TROUBLE
Some students of biology planned a trick on their professor. They took
the head of one beetle, the body of another of a totally different
species, the wings of a third, the legs of a fourth. These members they
carefully pasted together. Then they asked the professor what kind of
bug the creature was. He answered promptly, "A humbug." Just such a
monstrosity is trouble--especially future trouble. Some things about it
are real, but the whole combined menace is only an illusion, not a thing
which actually exists at all. Face the trouble itself; give no heed to
that idea of it which invests it with a hundred dire calamities.
Trouble in the distance seems all-fired big--
Sorter makes you shiver when you look at it a-comin';
Makes you wanter edge aside, er hide, er take a swig
Of somethin' that is sure to set your worried head a-hummin'.
Trouble in the distance is a mighty skeery feller--
But wait until it reaches you afore you start to beller!
Trouble standin' in th' road and frownin' at you, black,
Makes you feel like takin' to the weeds along the way;
Wish to goodness you could turn and hump yerself straight back;
Know 'twill be awful when he gets you close at bay!
Trouble standin' in the road is bound to make you shy--
But wait until it reaches you afore you start to cry!