Princes are we, and of a line right royal; Heirs are we of a glorious realm above; Yet bound to service humble, true, and loyal, For thus constraineth us our Monarch's love. And looking to the joy that lies before us, The crown held out to our once fallen race; Led by the light that ever shineth o'er us, Man is restored to nature's noblest place. _Noblesse oblige_--(our very watchword be it!) To raise the fallen from this low estate, To boldly combat wrong whene'er we see it, To render good for evil, love for hate. _Noblesse oblige_--to deeds of valiant daring In alien lands which other lords obey, And into farthest climes our standard bearing, To lead them captive 'neath our Master's sway. _Noblesse oblige_--that, grudging not our treasure, Nor seeking any portion to withhold, We freely give it, without stint or measure, Whate'er it be--our talents, time, or gold. _Noblesse oblige_--that, looking upward ever, We serve our King with courage, faith, and love, Till, through that grace which can from death deliver, We claim our noble heritage above! OUR HEROES The winds that once the Argo bore Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines, And her hull is the drift of the deep sea floor, Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines. You may seek her crew in every isle, Fair in the foam of Aegean seas, But out of their sleep no charm can wile Jason and Orpheus and Hercules. And Priam's voice is heard no more By windy Illium's sea-built walls; From the washing wave and the lonely shore No wail goes up as Hector falls. On Ida's mount is the shining snow, But Jove has gone from its brow away, And red on the plain the poppies grow Where Greek and Trojan fought that day. Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead? Do they thrill the soul of the years no more? Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red All that is left of the brave of yore? Are there none to fight as Theseus fought, Far in the young world's misty dawn? Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught? Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone? Gone?--in a nobler form they rise; Dead?--we may clasp their hands in ours, And catch the light of their glorious eyes, And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers. Whenever a noble deed is done, There are the souls of our heroes stirred; Whenever a field for truth is won, There are our heroes' voices heard. Their armor rings in a fairer field Than Greek or Trojan ever trod, For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield, And the light above them the smile of God! So, in his Isle of calm delight, Jason may dream the years away, But the heroes live, and the skies are bright, And the world is a braver world to-day. --Edna Dean Proctor.