Nay, not for place, but for the right,
To make this fair world fairer still--
Or lowly lily of the night,
Or sun topped tower of a hill,
Or high or low, or near or far,
Or dull or keen, or bright or dim,
Or blade of grass, or brightest star--
All, all are but the same to him.
O pity of the strife for place!
O pity of the strife for power!
How scarred, how marred a mountain's face!
How fair the face of a flower!
The blade of grass beneath your feet
The bravest sword--aye, braver far
To do and die in mute defeat
Than bravest conqueror of war!
When I am dead, say this, but this:
"He grasped at no man's blade or shield.
Or banner bore, but helmetless,
Alone, unknown, he held the field;
He held the field, with sabre drawn,
Where God had set him in the fight;
He held the field, fought on and on,
And so fell, fighting for the right!"
--Joaquin Miller.
While thus to love he gave his days
In loyal worship, scorning praise,
How spread their lures for him in vain,
Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain!
He thought it happier to be dead,
To die for Beauty than live for bread.
--Ralph Waldo Emerson.
Whether we climb, whether we plod,
Space for one task the scant years lend,
To choose some path that leads to God,
And keep it to the end.
--Lizette Woodworth Reese.
Bravely to do whate'er the time demands,
Whether with pen or sword, and not to flinch,
This is the task that fits heroic hands;
So are Truth's boundaries widened, inch by inch.
--James Russell Lowell.