The battleship its anchor weighs, And belches forth its thunder; Its commodore all classes praise, And at his victories wonder; And well they may--for braver man Ne'er wielded sword or sabre; But tell me, brother, if you can, Who did the lowly labor. Below the deck in engine-room, As oilers and coal-heavers? Amidst the smut and ghastly gloom, Who worked the iron levers? And thus it is in other lines; Brave men are often hidden "Below the deck," in shops and mines, To higher plane unbidden. The men on deck the praise receive, But meagre thanks the others; As honest men they seldom grieve, And envy not their brothers; A common cause they gladly serve, Though in a lowly station, From path of duty never swerve-- Loyal to God and nation. For when the smoke has cleared away, And din of battle ended, On upper deck, in bright array, By angel bands attended, The whole ship's crew will then appear, From high and lowly station, And each the words "well done" shall hear, 'Midst shouts of acclamation. "OTHERS SAVE WITH FEAR" Some men there are who stand so straight, So equipoised, that others' fate Seems to depend on their behest; And useless all our every quest To gain perfection or renown, Unless we touch the flowing gown Of these high-priests, whose shadows fall Within themselves, if fall at all. Others are not as straight as these, But more like rough and gnarled trees; But little beauty they display; Shadows they cast across the way; And from them men with scorning turn, Or, if they speak, their accents burn Like capsicum on chafed skin, And leave a smarting wound within. Once noble men, when turned aside By fleshly lust or sinful pride, Each one becomes a broken bell On which the angry fiends of hell Ring out their discord, harsh and loud, As if with demon powers endowed. Colossal once through grace they were; Colossal still, though cleft and bare. On northern rocks is often seen The impress of some southern sheen, The brightness of a warmer bloom, Unknown to winter's frost and gloom. The fossil flower of epoch fair Has left its lasting impress there. So in some men whose hearts are cold You find a trace of days of old. While we deplore the Arctic chill, The frigid heart, the ice-bound will, We must admire the fossil trace, Still seen, of early days of grace. Hiding from sight as best we can The traces of the fallen man, We feast our eyes upon the fair, Though fossil, lines that linger there. How to restore is our concern, As we o'er their declensions mourn. Can such dire ruin be repaired? Only if God's strong arm be bared. But we must do a brother's part, And try to thaw the frozen heart; Not by the fire of wrath above, But by the melting coals of love.