SONGS OF LIFE
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THE NOBLE NATURE
Ben Jonson
It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make men better be, Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day, Is fairer far, in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauty see; And in short measures, life may perfect be.
THE CHARACTER OF A HAPPY LIFE
Sir Henry Wotton
How happy is he born and taught, That serveth not another's will; Whose armor is his honest thought, And simple truth, his utmost skill;
Whose passions not his masters are, Whose soul is still prepared for death, Untied unto the world by care Of public fame or private breath;
Who envies none that chance doth raise, Nor vice; who never understood How deepest wounds are given by praise, Nor rules of state, but rules of good;
Who hath his life from rumors freed, Whose conscience is his strong retreat; Whose state can neither flatterers feed, Nor ruin make oppressors great;
Who God doth late and early pray, More of his grace than gifts to lend, And entertains the harmless day With a religious book, or friend.
This man is freed from servile bands Of hope to rise, or fear to fall; Lord of himself, though not of lands, And having nothing, yet hath all.
SAY NOT, THE STRUGGLE NOUGHT AVAILETH
Arthur Hugh Clough
Say not, the struggle nought availeth, The labor and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been they remain.
If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars; It may be, in yon smoke concealed, Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers, And, but for you, possess the field.
For while the tired waves, vainly breaking, Seem here no painful inch to gain, Far back, through creeks and inlets making, Comes silent, flooding in, the main.
And not by eastern windows only, When daylight comes, comes in the light, In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, But westward, look, the land is bright.
FOR A' THAT AN' A' THAT
Robert Burns
Is there for honest poverty That hings his head, an' a' that? The coward slave, we pass him by,— We dare be poor for a' that!
For a' that, an' a' that, Our toils obscure, an' a' that, The rank is but the guinea's stamp, The man's the gowd for a' that.
What though on hamely fare we dine, Wear hodden gray, an' a' that? Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine— A man's a man for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, Their tinsel show, an' a 'that: The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor, Is king o' men for a' that.
Ye see yon birkie ca'd "a lord," Wha' struts an' stares, an' a 'that? Tho' hundreds worship at his word, He's but a cuif for a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, His riband, star, an' a' that, The man o' independent mind He looks an' laughs at a' that.
A prince can mak' a belted knight, A marquis, duke, an' a' that! But an honest man's aboon his might,— Guid faith, he mauna fa' that! For a' that, an' a' that, Their dignities an' a' that, The pith o' sense, an' pride o' worth, Are higher rank than a' that.
Then let us pray that come it may, (As come it will for a' that) That Sense and Worth, o'er a' the earth, Shall bear the gree, an' a' that. For a' that, an' a' that, It's comin' yet, for a' that, That man to man, the world o'er, Shall brithers be for a' that.
INVICTUS
William Ernest Henly
Out of the night that covers me, Black as the Pit from pole to pole, I thank whatever gods may be For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance I have not winced nor cried aloud. Under the bludgeonings of chance My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears Looms but the Horror of the shade, And yet the menace of the years Finds, and shall find, me unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate, How charged with punishments the scroll, I am the master of my fate: I am the captain of my soul.
OPPORTUNITY
Edward Rowland Sill
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:— There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince's banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes. A craven hung along the battle's edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel— That blue blade that the king's son bears,—but this Blunt thing—!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field. Then came the king's son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and snatched it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.
A PSALM OF LIFE
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
Tell me not, in mournful numbers, Life is but an empty dream!— For the soul is dead that slumbers, And things are not what they seem.
Life is real! Life is earnest! And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act, that each tomorrow Finds us farther than today.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle, In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattle! Be a hero in the strife!
Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant! Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act,—act in the living Present, Heart within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And, departing, leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time;—
Footprints, that perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us, then, be up and doing, With a heart for any fate; Still achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labor and to wait.