APPENDIX

Be strong! We are not here to play, to dream, to drift, We have hard work to do, and loads to lift. Shun not the struggle, face it, 'tis God's gift. Be strong! Say not the days are evil—who's to blame? And fold the hands and acquiesce—O shame! Stand up, speak out, and bravely, in God's name. Be strong! It matters not how deep intrenched the wrong, How hard the battle goes, the day, how long; Faint not, fight on! To-morrow comes the song. —Maltbie D. Babcock.

O Lord, I pray That for this day I may not swerve By foot or hand From thy command, Not to be served, but to serve. This, too, I pray, That for this day No love of ease Nor pride prevent My good intent, Not to be pleased, but to please. And if I may I'd have this day Strength from above To set my heart In heavenly art, Not to be loved, but to love. —Maltbie D. Babcock.

No distant Lord have I, Loving afar to be; Made flesh for me, he cannot rest Unless he rests in me. Brother in joy and pain, Bone of my bone was he, Now—intimacy closer still, He dwells himself in me. I need not journey far This dearest Friend to see; Companionship is always mine, He makes his home with me. I envy not the twelve, Nearer to me is he; The life he once lived here on earth He lives again in me. Ascended now to God, My witness there to be, His witness here am I, because His Spirit dwells in me. O glorious Son of God, Incarnate Deity, I shall forever be with thee Because thou art with me. —Maltbie D. Babcock.

If I lay waste and wither up with doubt The blessed fields of heaven where once my faith Possessed itself serenely safe from death; If I deny the things past finding out; Or if I orphan my own soul of One That seemed a Father, and make void the place Within me where He dwelt in power and grace, What do I gain that am myself undone? —William Dean Howells.

Why be afraid of Death as though your life were breath! Death but anoints your eyes with clay. O glad surprise! Why should you be forlorn? Death only husks the corn. Why should you fear to meet the thresher of the wheat? Is sleep a thing to dread? Yet sleeping, you are dead Till you awake and rise, here, or beyond the skies. Why should it be a wrench to leave your wooden bench, Why not with happy shout run home when school is out? The dear ones left behind! O foolish one and blind. A day—and you will meet,—a night—and you will greet! This is the death of Death, to breathe away a breath And know the end of strife, and taste the deathless life, And joy without a fear, and smile without a tear, And work, nor care nor rest, and find the last the best. —Maltbie D. Babcock.

Lord, let me make this rule: To think of life as school, And try my best To stand each test, And do my work And nothing shirk. Should some one else outshine This dullard head of mine, Should I be sad? I will be glad. To do my best Is thy behest. If weary with my book I cast a wistful look Where posies grow, Oh, let me know That flowers within Are best to win. Dost take my book away Anon to let me play, And let me out To run about? I grateful bless Thee for recess. Then recess past, alack, I turn me slowly back, On my hard bench, My hands to clench, And set my heart To learn my part. These lessons thou dost give To teach me how to live, To do, to bear, To get and share, To work and pray And trust alway. What though I may not ask To choose my daily task, Thou hast decreed To meet my need. What pleases thee That shall please me. Some day the bell will sound, Some day my heart will bound, As with a shout, That school is out, And, lessons done, I homeward run. —Maltbie D. Babcock.

Weary of all this wordy strife, These notions, forms, and modes, and names, To Thee, the Way, the Truth, the Life, Whose love my simple heart inflames, Divinely taught, at last I fly, With Thee, and Thine, to live and die. Redeemed by Thine almighty grace, I taste my glorious liberty, With open arms the world embrace, But cleave to those who cleave to Thee; But only in thy saints delight, Who walk with God in purest white. My brethren, friends, and kinsmen these, Who do my heavenly Father's will; Who aim at perfect holiness, And all Thy counsels to fulfill, Athirst to be whate'er Thou art And love their God with all their heart. —Charles Wesley.

What matter, friend, though you and I May sow and others gather? We build and others occupy, Each laboring for the other? What though we toil from sun to sun, And men forget to flatter The noblest work our hands have done— If God approves, what matter? What matter, though we sow in tears, And crops fail at the reaping? What though the fruit of patient years Fast perish in our keeping? Upon our hoarded treasures, floods Arise, and tempests scatter— If faith beholds, beyond the clouds, A clearer sky, what matter? What matter, though our castles fall, And disappear while building; Though "strange handwritings on the wall" Flame out amid the gilding? Though every idol of the heart The hand of death may shatter, Though hopes decay and friends depart, If heaven be ours, what matter? —H. W. Teller.

In those clear, piercing, piteous eyes behold The very soul that over England flamed! Deep, pure, intense; consuming shame and ill; Convicting men of sin; making faith live; And,—this the mightiest miracle of all,— Creating God again in human hearts. What courage of the flesh and of the spirit! How grim of wit, when wit alone might serve! What wisdom his to know the boundless might Of banded effort in a world like ours! How meek, how self-forgetful, courteous, calm! A silent figure when men idly raged In murderous anger; calm, too, in the storm,— Storm of the spirit, strangely imminent, When spiritual lightnings struck men down And brought, by violence, the sense of sin, And violently oped the gates of peace. O hear that voice, which rang from dawn to night, In church and abbey whose most ancient walls Not for a thousand years such accents knew! On windy hilltops; by the roaring sea; 'Mid tombs, in market-places, prisons, fields; 'Mid clamor, vile attack,—or deep-awed hush, Wherein celestial visitants drew near And secret ministered to troubled souls! Hear ye, O hear! that ceaseless-pleading voice, Which storm, nor suffering, nor age could still— Chief prophet voice through nigh a century's span! Now silvery as Zion's dove that mourns, Now quelling as the Archangel's judgment trump, And ever with a sound like that of old Which, in the desert, shook the wandering tribes, Or, round about storied Jerusalem, Or by Gennesaret, or Jordan, spake The words of life. Let not that image fade Ever, O God! from out the minds of men, Of him thy messenger and stainless priest, In a brute, sodden, and unfaithful time, Early and late, o'er land and sea, on-driven; In youth, in eager manhood, age extreme,— Driven on forever, back and forth the world, By that divine, omnipotent desire— The hunger and the passion for men's souls! —Richard Watson Gilder.

It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip, Thou dost not fall. —Arthur Hugh Clough.

My darling went Unto the seaside long ago. Content I stayed at home, for O, I was so glad Of all the little outings that she had! I knew she needed rest. I loved to stay At home a while that she might go away. "How beautiful the sea! How she enjoys The music of the waves! No care annoys Her pleasures," thought I; "O, it is so good That she can rest a while. I wish she could Stay till the autumn leaves are turning red." "Stay longer, sister," all my letters said. "If you are growing stronger every day, I am so very glad to have you stay." My darling went To heaven long ago. Am I content To stay at home? Why can I not be glad Of all the glories that she there has had? She needed change. Why am I loath to stay And do her work and let her go away? The land is lovely where her feet have been; Why do I not rejoice that she has seen Its beauties first? That she will show to me The City Beautiful? Is it so hard to be Happy that she is happy? Hard to know She learns so much each day that helps her so? Why can I not each night and morning say, "I am so glad that she is glad to-day?"

You think them "out of reach," your dead? Nay, by my own dead, I deny Your "out of reach."—Be comforted; 'Tis not so far to die. O by their dear remembered smiles, And outheld hands and welcoming speech, They wait for us, thousands of miles This side of "out of reach." —James Whitcomb Riley.

I lift my head and walk my ways Before the world without a tear, And bravely unto those I meet I smile a message of good cheer; I give my lips to laugh and song, And somehow get me through each day; But, oh, the tremble in my heart Since she has gone away! Her feet had known the stinging thorns, Her eyes the blistering tears; Bent were her shoulders with the weight And sorrow of the years; The lines were deep upon her brow, Her hair was thin and gray; And, oh, the tremble in my heart Since she has gone away! I am not sorry; I am glad; I would not have her here again; God gave her strength life's bitter cup Unto the bitterest dreg to drain; I will not have less strength than she, I proudly tread my stony way; But, oh, the tremble in my heart Since she has gone away!

I lay me down to sleep With little thought or care Whether my waking find Me here or there. A bowing, burdened head, That only asks to rest, Unquestioning, upon A loving breast. My good right hand forgets Its cunning now; To march the weary march I know not how. I am not eager, bold, Nor strong—all that is past; I'm ready not to do At last, at last. My half-day's work is done, And this is all my part; I give a patient God My patient heart, And grasp his banner still, Though all its blue be dim; These stripes, no less than stars, Lead after Him. —M. W. Howland.

Father of mercies, thy children have wandered Far from thy bosom, their home; Most of their portion of goods they have squandered; Farther and farther they roam. We are thy children, and we have departed To the lone country afar, We would arise, we come back broken-hearted; Take us back just as we are. Not for the ring or the robe we entreat thee, Nor for high place at the feast; Only to see thee, to touch thee, to greet thee, Ranked with the last and the least. But for thy mercy we dare not accost thee, But for thy Son who has come Seeking his brothers who left thee and lost thee, Seeking to gather them home. Father of mercies, thy holiness awes us; Yet thou dost wait to receive! Jesus, the light of thy countenance charms us, Father of him, we believe. Back in the home of thy heart, may we labor Others to bring from the wild, Counting each creature that needs us our neighbor, Claiming each soul as thy child. —Robert F. Horton.

How shall we tell an angel From another guest? How, from common worldly herd, One of the blest? Hint of suppressed halo, Rustle of hidden wings, Wafture of heavenly frankincense— Which of these things? The old Sphinx smiles so subtly: "I give no golden rule— Yet would I warn thee, World: treat well Whom thou call'st fool." —Gertrude Hall.

Give me my scallop-shell of quiet, My staff of faith to walk upon, My scrip of joy, immortal diet, My bottle of salvation, My gown of glory, hope's true gage; And thus I'll take my pilgrimage. Blood must be my body's balmer; No other balm will there be given; Whilst my soul, like quiet palmer, Traveleth toward the land of heaven; Over the silver mountains, Where spring the nectar fountains, There will I kiss The bowl of bliss, And drink mine everlasting fill Upon every milken hill. My soul will be a-dry before; But after, it will thirst no more. Then by that happy, blissful day, More peaceful pilgrims I shall see, That have cast off their rags of clay, And walk appareled fresh like me. I'll take them first To quench their thirst And taste of nectar suckets, At those clear wells Where sweetness dwells, Drawn up by saints in crystal buckets. —Sir Walter Raleigh.

O Sentinel at the loose-swung door of my impetuous lips, Guard close to-day! Make sure no word unjust or cruel slips In anger forth, by folly spurred or armed with envy's whips; Keep clear the way to-day.

And Watchman on the cliff-scarred heights that lead from heart to mind, When wolf-thoughts clothed in guile's soft fleece creep up, O be not blind! But may they pass whose foreheads bear the glowing seal-word, "kind"; Bid them Godspeed, I pray.

And Warden of my soul's stained house, where love and hate are born, O make it clean, if swept must be with pain's rough broom of thorn! And quiet impose, so straining ears with world-din racked and torn, May catch what God doth say.

A good man never dies— In worthy deed and prayer, And helpful hands, and honest eyes, If smiles or tears be there; Who lives for you and me— Lives for the world he tries To help—he lives eternally. A good man never dies. Who lives to bravely take His share of toil and stress, And, for his weaker fellows' sake Makes every burden less— He may, at last, seem worn— Lie fallen—hands and eyes Folded—yet, though we mourn and mourn, A good man never dies. —James Whitcomb Riley.

A fire-mist and a planet, A crystal and a cell, A jellyfish and a saurian, And caves where the cavemen dwell; Then a sense of law and beauty, And a face turned from the clod— Some call it Evolution And others call it God. A haze on the far horizon, The infinite, tender sky, The ripe, rich tint of the cornfields, And the wild geese sailing high— And all over upland and lowland The charm of the golden rod— Some of us call it Autumn, And others call it God. Like tides on a crescent sea beach, When the moon is new and thin, Into our hearts high yearnings Come welling and surging in— Come from the mystic ocean, Whose rim no foot has trod— Some of us call it Longing, And others call it God. A picket frozen on duty— A mother starved for her brood— Socrates drinking the hemlock, And Jesus on the rood; And millions who, humble and nameless, The straight, hard pathway trod— Some call it Consecration, And others call it God. —William Herbert Carruth.

Do you go to my school? Yes, you go to my school, And we've learned the big lesson—Be strong! And to front the loud noise With a spirit of poise, And drown down the noise with a song. We have spelled the first line in the Primer of Fate; We have spelled it, and dare not to shirk— For its first and its greatest commandment to men Is "Work, and rejoice in your work." Who is learned in this Primer will not be a fool— You are one of my classmates. You go to my school. You belong to my club? Yes, you're one of my club, And this is our program and plan: To each do his part To look into the heart And get at the good that's in man. Detectives of virtue and spies of the good And sleuth-hounds of righteousness we. Look out there, my brother! we're hot on your trail, We'll find out how good you can be. We would drive from our hearts the snake, tiger, and cub; We're the Lodge of the Lovers. You're one of my club. You belong to my church? Yes, you go to my church— Our names on the same old church roll— The tide-waves of God We believe are abroad And flow into the creeks of each soul. And the vessel we sail on is strong as the sea That buffets and blows it about; For the sea is God's sea as the ship is God's ship, So we know not the meaning of doubt; And we know howsoever the vessel may lurch We've a Pilot to trust in. You go to my church. —Sam Walter Foss.

Never elated while one man's oppressed; Never dejected while another's blessed. —Alexander Pope.

There's a craze among us mortals that is cruel hard to name; Wheresoe'er you find a human you will find the case the same; You may seek among the worst of men or seek among the best, And you'll find that every person is precisely like the rest: Each believes his real calling is along some other line Than the one at which he's working—take, for instance, yours and mine. From the meanest "me-too" creature to the leader of the mob, There's a universal craving for "the other fellow's job."

There are millions of positions in the busy world to-day, Each a drudge to him who holds it, but to him who doesn't, play; Every farmer's broken-hearted that in youth he missed his call, While that same unhappy farmer is the envy of us all. Any task you care to mention seems a vastly better lot Than the one especial something which you happen to have got. There's but one sure way to smother Envy's heartache and her sob: Keep too busy at your own to want "the other fellow's job."

—Strickland W. Gilliland.

"If I have eaten my morsel alone," The patriarch spoke in scorn. What would he think of the Church were he shown Heathendom—huge, forlorn, Godless, Christless, with soul unfed, While the Church's ailment is fullness of bread, Eating her morsel alone? "Freely as ye have received, so give," He bade who hath given us all. How shall the soul in us longer live Deaf to their starving call, For whom the blood of the Lord was shed, And his body broken to give them bread, If we eat our morsel alone? —Archbishop Alexander.

What makes a man great? Is it houses and lands? Is it argosies dropping their wealth at his feet? Is it multitudes shouting his name in the street? Is it power of brain? Is it skill of hand? Is it writing a book? Is it guiding the State? Nay, nay, none of these can make a man great. The crystal burns cold with its beautiful fire, And is what it is; it can never be more; The acorn, with something wrapped warm at the core, In quietness says, "To the oak I aspire." That something in seed and in tree is the same— What makes a man great is his greatness of aim. What is greatness of aim? Your purpose to trim For bringing the world to obey your behest? O no, it is seeking God's perfect and best, Making something the same both in you and in him. Love what he loves, and, child of the sod, Already you share in the greatness of God. —Samuel V. Cole.

When the other firms show dizziness Here's a house that does not share it. Wouldn't you like to join the business? Join the firm of Grin and Barrett? Give your strength that does not murmur, And your nerve that does not falter, And you've joined a house that's firmer Than the old rock of Gibraltar. They have won a good prosperity; Why not join the firm and share it? Step, young fellow, with celerity; Join the firm of Grin and Barrett. Grin and Barrett, Who can scare it? Scare the firm of Grin and Barrett? —Sam Walter Foss.

Milton! thou shouldst be living at this hour: England hath need of thee: she is a fen Of stagnant waters: altars, sword, and pen, Fireside, the heroic wealth of hall and bower, Have forfeited their ancient English dower Of inward happiness. We are selfish men. O! raise us up, return to us again; And give us manners, virtue, freedom, power. Thy soul was like a Star, and dwelt apart: Thou hadst a voice whose sound was like the sea: Pure as the naked heavens, majestic, free, So didst thou travel on life's common way, In cheerful godliness; and yet thy heart The lowliest duties on herself did lay. —William Wordsworth.

For radiant health I praise not when I pray, Nor for routine of toil well-pleasing every way, Though these gifts, Lord, more priceless grow each day. Not for congenial comrades, garnered store Of worldly wealth, nor vision that sees o'er Such sordid mass, mind's plumèd eagles soar. Not even, Lord, for love that eases stress Of storm, contention, hope's unconquerableness, Nor faith's abiding peace, nor works that bless. But this, dear Lord, stir inner depths divine, That day by day, though slowly! line on line My will begins—begins—to merge in thine. —Charles L. Story.

O Thou who lovest not alone The swift success, the instant goal, But hast a lenient eye to mark The failures of the inconstant soul, Consider not my little worth— The mean achievement, scamped in act— The high resolve and low result, The dream that durst not face the fact. But count the reach of my desire— Let this be something in thy sight; I have not, in the slothful dark, Forgot the vision and the height. Neither my body nor my soul To earth's low ease will yield consent. I praise thee for the will to strive; I bless thy goad and discontent. —Charles G. D. Roberts.

When over the fair fame of friend or foe The shadow of disgrace shall fall, instead Of words of blame or proof of thus and so, Let something good be said! Forget not that no fellow-being yet May fall so low but love may lift his head; Even the cheek of shame with tears is wet, If something good be said. No generous heart may vainly turn aside In ways of sympathy; no soul so dead But may awaken, strong and glorified, If something good be said. And so I charge ye, by the thorny crown, And by the cross on which the Saviour bled, And by your own soul's hope of fair renown, Let something good be said! —James Whitcomb Riley.

Why do we cling to the skirts of sorrow? Why do we cloud with care the brow? Why do we wait for a glad to-morrow— Why not gladden the precious Now? Eden is yours! Would you dwell within it? Change men's grief to a gracious smile, And thus have heaven here this minute And not far-off in the afterwhile. Life, at most, is a fleeting bubble, Gone with the puff of an angel's breath. Why should the dim hereafter trouble Souls this side of the gates of death? The crown is yours! Would you care to win it? Plant a song in the hearts that sigh, And thus have heaven here this minute And not far-off in the by-and-by. Find the soul's high place of beauty, Not in a man-made book of creeds, But where desire ennobles duty And life is full of your kindly deeds. The bliss is yours! Would you fain begin it? Pave with love each golden mile, And thus have heaven here this minute And not far-off in the afterwhile. —Nixon Waterman.

Love thyself last: cherish those hearts that hate thee; Corruption wins not more than honesty. Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not: Let all the ends thou aim'st at be thy country's, Thy God's, and truth's. —William Shakespeare.

Sweet are the uses of adversity; Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, Wears yet a precious jewel in his head; And this our life, exempt from public haunt, Finds tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, Sermons in stones, and good in everything. —William Shakespeare.

But let my due feet never fail To walk the studious cloister's pale, And love the high embowèd roof With antique pillars massy proof, And storied windows richly dight, Casting a dim religious light. There let the pealing organ blow, To the full-voiced choir below, In service high, and anthems clear, As may with sweetness, through mine ear, Dissolve me into ecstasies, And bring all Heaven before mine eyes. —John Milton.

Give us men! Strong and stalwart ones: Men whom highest hope inspires, Men whom purest honor fires, Men who trample Self beneath them, Men who make their country wreathe them As her noble sons, Worthy of their sires, Men who never shame their mothers, Men who never fail their brothers; True, however false are others: Give us Men—I say again, Give us Men! —Bishop of Exeter.

I will not doubt though all my ships at sea Come drifting home with broken masts and sails, I will believe the Hand which never fails, From seeming evil worketh good for me; And though I weep because those sails are tattered, Still will I cry, while my best hopes lie shattered, "I trust in Thee."

The wounds I might have healed, The human sorrow and smart! And yet it never was in my soul To play so ill a part. But evil is wrought by want of thought As well as want of heart. —Thomas Hood.

Feel glum? Keep mum. Don't grumble. Be humble. Trials cling? Just sing. Can't sing? Just cling. Don't fear—God's near! Money goes—He knows. Honor left—Not bereft. Don't rust—Work! Trust! —Ernest Bourner Allen.

A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead; In filling love's infinite store, A rose to the living is more, If graciously given before The hungering spirit is fled— A rose to the living is more Than sumptuous wreaths to the dead. —Nixon Waterman.

Canst thou see no beauty nigh? Cure thy dull, distempered eye. Canst thou no sweet music hear? Tune thy sad, discordant ear. Earth has beauty everywhere If the eye that sees is fair. Earth has music to delight If the ear is tuned aright. —Nixon Waterman.

Anew we pledge ourselves to Thee, To follow where thy Truth shall lead; Afloat upon its boundless sea, Who sails with God is safe indeed.

O, though oft depressed and lonely All my fears are laid aside, If I but remember only Such as these have lived and died.

It was only a glad "Good morning," As she passed along the way; But it spread the morning's glory Over the livelong day.

For the right against the wrong, For the weak against the strong, For the poor who've waited long, For the brighter age to be.

The gifts that to our breasts we fold Are brightened by our losses. The sweetest joys a heart can hold Grow up between its crosses. And on life's pathway many a mile Is made more glad and cheery, Because, for just a little while, The way seemed dark and dreary. —Nixon Waterman.

Wherever now a sorrow stands, 'Tis mine to heal His nail-torn hands. In every lonely lane and street, 'Tis mine to wash His wounded feet— 'Tis mine to roll away the stone And warm His heart against my own. Here, here on earth I find it all— The young archangels, white and tall, The Golden City and the doors, And all the shining of the floors!

I sent my soul through the Invisible, Some letter of that After-life to spell; And by and by my soul returned to me, And answered, "I myself am Heaven and Hell." —Omar Khayyam.

Count that day really worse than lost You might have made divine, Through which you scattered lots of frost And ne'er a speck of shine. —Nixon Waterman.

O, the little birds sang east, and the little birds sang west, And I smiled to think God's greatness flowed around our incompleteness, Round our restlessness, His rest.

—Elizabeth Barrett Browning.

If by one word I help another, A struggling and despairing brother, Or ease one bed of pain; If I but aid some sad one weeping, Or comfort one, lone vigil keeping, I have not lived in vain.