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And puts at last beneath his feet
The bravest man that drew a sword
It calls for something more than brawn
An enemy, who marched not
With waving plume and drum
A foe forever lurking nigh,
With silent, stealthy tread
All honor, then, to that brave heart,
Or fill a hero's grave;
But truth will place his name among
The bravest of the brave.
THEY said, "Don't plant them, mother; they're so
common and so poor;"
But of seeds I had no other, so I dropped them by the door;
And they soon were brightly growing in the rich and teeming soil, Stretching upward, upward, upward, to reward me for my toil.
They grew all o'er the casement, and they wreathed around the door,
All about the chamber windows, upward, upward, ever
And each dawn in glowing beauty, glistening in the early dew,
Is the house all wreathed in splendor, every morning bright and new.
What if they close at midday, 'tis because their work is
And they shut their crimson petals from the kisses f the sun,
Teaching every day their lesson to my weary, pan.ng soul,
To be faithful in well-doing, stretching upward for the
Sending out the climbing tendrils, trusting God for strength and power,
To support, and aid and comfort, in the trying day and
Never spurn the thing that's common, nor call these home flowers poor,
For each hath a holy mission, like my glory o'er the
E scatter seeds with careless hand,
And dream we ne'er shall see them more: But for a thousand years
Their fruit appears,
In weeds that mar the land
Or healthful store.
The deeds we do, the words we say,
Into still air they seem to fleet;
We count them ever past;
In the dread judgment they
I charge thee by the years gone by,
Keep, then, the one true way
Lest in the world their cry
Of woe thou hear.
HE look of sympathy, the gentle word
Spoken so low that only angels heard;
The secret act of pure self-sacrifice,
Unseen by men but marked by angels' eyesThese are not lost.
The sacred music of a tender strain
Wrung from a poet's heart by grief and pain,
The silent tears that fall at dead of night
The happy dreams that gladdened all our youth,
The kindly plans devised for others' good,
Not lost, O Lord, for in Thy city bright,
THE OLD YEAR.
AST night, when all the village Was lying white and still, With starlight in the valley, With moonlight on the hill, I wakened from my dreaming, And hushed my heart to hear The old clock on the steeple Toll out the dying year.
They say that when the angels
No sound came through the silence,
Of all the gifts and blessings
So, in that solemn morning
When first thy feet shall stand,