For earth hath martyrs now, a saintly throng; Each day unnoticed do we pass them by; 'Mid busy crowds they calmly move along, Bearing a hidden cross, how patiently! Not theirs the sudden anguish, swift and keen, Their hearts are worn and wasted with small cares, With daily griefs and thrusts from foes unseen; Troubles and trials that take them unawares; Theirs is a lingering, silent martyrdom; They weep through weary years, and long for rest to come. They weep, but murmur not; it is God's will, And they have learned to bend their own to his; Simply enduring, knowing that each ill Is but the herald of some future bliss; Striving and suffering, yet so silently They know it least who seem to know them best. Faithful and true through long adversity They work and wait until God gives them rest; These surely share with those of bygone days The palm-branch and the crown, and swell their song of praise. THE HAPPY WARRIOR 'Tis, finally, the man, who, lifted high, Conspicuous object in a nation's eye, Or left unthought of in obscurity, Who, with a toward or untoward lot, Prosperous or adverse, to his wish or not,-- Plays, in the many games of life, that one Where what he most doth value must be won; Whom neither shape of danger can dismay, Nor thought of tender happiness betray; Who, not content that former work stand fast, Looks forward, persevering to the last, From well to better, daily self-surpast; Who, whether praise of him must walk the earth Forever, and to noble deeds give birth, Or he must fall, to sleep without his fame, And leave a dead, unprofitable name-- Finds comfort in himself and in his cause, And, while the mortal mist is gathering, draws His breath in confidence of Heaven's applause: This is the happy warrior; this is he That every man in arms should wish to be. --William Wordsworth. Aground the man who seeks a noble end Not angels but divinities attend. --Ralph Waldo Emerson. ROBERT BROWNING'S MESSAGE Grow old along with me! The best is yet to be, The last of life, for which the first was made; Our times are in His hand Who saith, "A whole I planned, Youth shows but half; trust God: see all, nor be afraid!" Poor vaunt of life indeed, Were man but formed to feed On joy, to solely seek and find and feast; Such feasting ended, then As sure an end to men: Irks care the crop-full bird? Frets doubt the maw-crammed beast? Then welcome each rebuff That turns earth's smoothness rough, Each sting that bids nor sit nor stand, but go! Be our joys three parts pain! Strive, and hold cheap the strain; Learn, nor account the pang; dare, never grudge the throe!