We need not expect much of the man who, when defeated, gives way either to despair or to a wild impulse for immediate revenge.  But from the man who stores up his strength quietly and bides his time for a new effort, we may expect everything.

  Now, think you, Life, I am defeated quite? 
    More than a single battle shall be mine
  Before I yield the sword and give the sign
    And turn, a crownless outcast, to the night. 
  Wounded, and yet unconquered in the fight,
    I wait in silence till the day may shine
  Once more upon my strength, and all the line
    Of your defenses break before my might.

  Mine be that warrior’s blood who, stricken sore,
    Lies in his quiet chamber till he hears
  Afar the clash and clang of arms, and knows
    The cause he lived for calls for him once more;
  And straightway rises, whole and void of fears,
    And armed, turns him singing to his foes.

Theodosia Garrison.

From “The Earth Cry.”

A PSALM OF LIFE

At times this existence of ours seems to be meaningless; whether we have succeeded or whether we have failed appears to make little difference to us, and therefore effort seems scarcely worth while.  But Longfellow tells us this view is all wrong.  The past can take care of itself, and we need not even worry very much about the future; but if we are true to our own natures, we must be up and doing in the present.  Time is short, and mastery in any field of human activity is so long a process that it forbids us to waste our moments.  Yet we must learn also how to wait and endure.  In short, we must not become slaves to either indifference or impatience, but must make it our business to play a man’s part in life.

  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 to-morrow
    Find us farther than to-day.

  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;