COURAGE.

     There is a courage, a majestic thing
       That springs forth from the brow of pain, full-grown,
       Minerva-like, and dares all dangers known,
     And all the threatening future yet may bring;
     Crowned with the helmet of great suffering;
       Serene with that grand strength by martyrs shown,
       When at the stake they die and make no moan,
     And even as the flames leap up are heard to sing: 

     A courage so sublime and unafraid,
       It wears its sorrows like a coat of mail;
       And Fate, the archer, passes by dismayed,
     Knowing his best barbed arrows needs must fail
     To pierce a soul so armored and arrayed
       That Death himself might look on it and quail.

     [Illustration:]

     SOLITUDE.

     Laugh, and the world laughs with you;
       Weep, and you weep alone;
     For the sad old earth must borrow its mirth,
       But has trouble enough of its own. 
     Sing, and the hills will answer;
       Sigh, it is lost on the air;
     The echoes bound to a joyful sound,
       But shrink from voicing care.

     Rejoice, and men will seek you;
       Grieve, and they turn and go;
     They want full measure of all your pleasure,
       But they do not need your woe. 
     Be glad, and your friends are many;
       Be sad, and you lose them all;
     There are none to decline your nectar’d wine,
       But alone you must drink life’s gall.

     Feast, and your halls are crowded;
       Fast, and the world goes by. 
     Succeed and give, and it helps you live,
       But no man can help you die. 
     There is room in the halls of pleasure
       For a large and lordly train,
     But one by one we must all file on
       Through the narrow aisles of pain.

     THE YEAR OUTGROWS THE SPRING.

     The year outgrows the spring it thought so sweet,
       And clasps the summer with a new delight,
     Yet wearied, leaves her languors and her heat
       When cool-browed autumn dawns upon his sight.

     The tree outgrows the bud’s suggestive grace,
       And feels new pride in blossoms fully blown. 
     But even this to deeper joy gives place
       When bending boughs ’neath blushing burdens groan.

     Life’s rarest moments are derived from change. 
       The heart outgrows old happiness, old grief,
     And suns itself in feelings new and strange;
       The most enduring pleasure is but brief.

     Our tastes, our needs, are never twice the same. 
       Nothing contents us long, however dear. 
     The spirit in us, like the grosser frame,
       Outgrows the garments which it wore last year.

     Change is the watchword of Progression.  When
       We tire of well-worn ways we seek for new. 
     This restless craving in the souls of men
       Spurs them to climb, and seek the mountain view.