The hero is not fed on sweets, Daily his own heart he eats; Chambers of the great are jails, And head winds right for royal sails. --Ralph Waldo Emerson. TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS They seemed to die on battle-field, To die with justice, truth, and law; The bloody corpse, the broken shield, Were all that senseless folly saw. But, like Antaeus from the turf, They sprung refreshed, to strive again, Where'er the savage and the serf Rise to the rank of men. They seemed to die by sword and fire, Their voices hushed in endless sleep; Well might the noblest cause expire Beneath that mangled, smouldering heap; Yet that wan band, unarmed, defied The legions of their pagan foes; And in the truths they testified, From out the ashes rose. WORTH WHILE I pray thee, Lord, that when it comes to me To say if I will follow truth and Thee, Or choose instead to win, as better worth My pains, some cloying recompense of earth-- Grant me, great Father, from a hard-fought field, Forspent and bruised, upon a battered shield, Home to obscure endurance to be borne Rather than live my own mean gains to scorn. --Edward Sandford Martin. WILL O, well for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong. For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, Who seems a promontory of rock, That, compassed round with turbulent sound, In middle ocean meets the surging shock, Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned. --Alfred Tennyson. NOBLE DEEDS Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise, To higher levels rise. The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares. Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low! --Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. GOD'S HEROES Not on the gory field of fame Their noble deeds were done; Not in the sound of earth's acclaim Their fadeless crowns were won. Not from the palaces of kings, Nor fortune's sunny clime, Came the great souls, whose life-work flings Luster o'er earth and time. For truth with tireless zeal they sought; In joyless paths they trod-- Heedless of praise or blame they wrought, And left the rest to God. The lowliest sphere was not disdained; Where love could soothe or save, They went, by fearless faith sustained, Nor knew their deeds were brave.