Our lives seem filled with things of little worth; A thousand petty cares arise each day Which bring our soaring thoughts from heaven to earth, Reminding us that we have feet of clay; Yet we will not from path of duty stray If we amidst them all cleave to the right; Nor great nor small are actions in His sight; Through lowly vale He shows our feet the way. Our early dreams may not be realized; The roseate sky now proves quite commonplace; The constellations we so highly prized Have vanished all--nor left the slightest trace Of former glory in its azure face, But high o'er all beams out the polar star To guide us safe through rock and sandy bar; Life is complete and its cap-stone is grace. TO MR. RUDYARD KIPLING[1] True laureate of the Anglo-Saxon race, Whose words have won the hearts of young and old; So free from cant, and yet replete with grace, Or prose or verse it glows like burnished gold; Thy muse is ever loyal to the truth, And those who know thee best forget thy youth. Unbend thy bow and rest with us awhile; Thy active mind requires a healthy brain; Death's shadow has gone back upon the dial, And thou art left a higher goal to gain; The future will eclipse the brilliant past; Fear not; thy ideal will be reached at last. To do the grandest work one must needs be Endowed by Nature for the master task; Yea more, he must possess the light to see Those mysteries which nature seems to mask, And this can gain but in the royal way-- 'Tis dread experience leads from gloom to-day. The Master saw a struggling youth, and smiled, Pleased with his work in main; but, knowing too His latent power, if it could be beguiled From hiding-place, much greater work would do, He took His servant's hand and led the way Through vale of sorrow up to brighter day. By other path this height is ne'er attained, Nor books nor schools its hidden wealth unveil. Philosophy and art have treasures gained, But in this quest they must forever fail-- Experience only can the gift impart, Bring needed light and regulate the heart. To solace those who grieve one must have felt In his own heart the rending pangs of pain; The heart that suffers not will never melt At others' woes, though free from selfish stain; What we have felt and seen we truly know, And thus endowed, our tears for others flow. So leave thy much-loved lyre awhile unstrung Till health again invigorate thy frame; With brain renewed, with vigorous heart and lung Take up thy work once more, and greater fame-- A richer man by far than e'er before, For thou hast treasure on the other shore. [Footnote 1: These lines were written directly after Mr. Kipling's recovery from severe illness.] MEN BELOW DECK