What makes a hero?--not success, not fame, Inebriate merchants, and the loud acclaim Of glutted avarice--caps tossed up in air, Or pen of journalist with flourish fair; Bells pealed, stars, ribbons, and a titular name-- These, though his rightful tribute, he can spare; His rightful tribute, not his end or aim, Or true reward; for never yet did these Refresh the soul, or set the heart at ease. What makes a hero?--An heroic mind, Expressed in action, in endurance proved. And if there be preeminence of right, Derived through pain well suffered, to the height Of rank heroic, 'tis to bear unmoved Not toil, not risk, not rage of sea or wind, Not the brute fury of barbarians blind, But worse--ingratitude and poisonous darts, Launched by the country he had served and loved. This, with a free, unclouded spirit pure, This, in the strength of silence to endure, A dignity to noble deeds imparts Beyond the gauds and trappings of renown; This is the hero's complement and crown; This missed, one struggle had been wanting still-- One glorious triumph of the heroic will, One self-approval in his heart of hearts. --Henry Taylor. As the bird trims her to the gale I trim myself to the storm of time; I man the rudder, reef the sail, Obey the voice at eve obeyed at prime; "Lowly faithful banish fear, Right onward drive unharmed; The port, well worth the cruise, is near, And every wave is charmed." --Ralph Waldo Emerson. DEMAND FOR MEN The world wants men--large-hearted, manly men; Men who shall join its chorus and prolong The psalm of labor, and the psalm of love. The times want scholars--scholars who shall shape The doubtful destinies of dubious years, And land the ark that bears our country's good Safe on some peaceful Ararat at last. The age wants heroes--heroes who shall dare To struggle in the solid ranks of truth; To clutch the monster error by the throat; To bear opinion to a loftier seat; To blot the era of oppression out, And lead a universal freedom on. And heaven wants souls--fresh and capacious souls; To taste its raptures, and expand, like flowers, Beneath the glory of its central sun. It wants fresh souls--not lean and shrivelled ones; It wants fresh souls, my brother, give it thine. If thou indeed wilt be what scholars should; If thou wilt be a hero, and wilt strive To help thy fellow and exalt thyself, Thy feet at last shall stand on jasper floors; Thy heart, at last, shall seem a thousand hearts-- Each single heart with myriad raptures filled-- While thou shalt sit with princes and with kings, Rich in the jewel of a ransomed soul.