Sincere and strong of heart, In very truth he thought His ensign signaled duty's part; And as he thought he fought. And truth baptized in blood, As many a time before, Gave honor to his soldierhood, Though trailed the flag he bore. Work Its Own Reward O worker with the Lord, To crown thee with success, Believe thy work its own reward, Let self be less and less. In all things be sincere, Afraid not of the light, A prophet of the Golden Year In simply doing right. And be content to serve, A little one of God, In loyalty without reserve, A hero armored, shod. Or this dear life of thine, Of every charm bereft, Will crumble in the fire divine, Naught, naught but ashes left. * * * * * Now and Here O not to-morrow or afar, Thy work is now and here; Thy bosom holds the fairest star-- Dost see it shining clear? The nearest things are great, Remotest very small, To him with eyes to penetrate The silent coronal. So deep the basis lies Of life's great pyramid, That out of reach of common eyes Prophetic work is hid. His reign for which we pray, His kingdom undefiled, Whose scepter shall not pass away, Is in a little child. * * * * * A Little Child Come hither, little child, And bring thy heart to me; Thou art the true and unbeguiled, So full of melody. The presence of a child Has taught me more of heaven, And more my heart has reconciled Than Greece's immortal Seven. For when I sometimes think That life is void of song, Before a little child I sink And own that I am wrong. And lo my heart grows bright That was so dark and drear, Till in the tender morning light I find the Lord is near. * * * * * The Divine Presence O, when the Lord is near, The rainbow banners wave; The star I follow shineth clear, I am no more a slave. As if to honor Him, My work is true and free; And flowing to the shining brim, The cup of heaven I see. I marvel not that song Should be employment there In which the innumerable throng Their palms of triumph bear; Or that the choral strife And golden harps express The stirring labors of the life Of peace and righteousness. * * * * * Death in Life The song of work, I know, Has here its minor tone; And in its ever-changing flow, Death, death in life is known. Discordant notes, alas! So often cleave the air And smite the music as they pass, And leave their poison there.