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.”