 | Farm ballads |  |
143
FORWARD!
The beast that counts a heart can feel it beat—
The man who counts a soul can feel it yearn;
The while it guides his willing, eager feet,
Where Triumph calls, and Victory's altars burn.
The while it prompts his head and hands to earn
That which shall place him at the front: the when
Humanity his merits shall discern,
And give to him a place of honor; then
Acknowledging a man among his fellow-men!
The man who counts a soul can feel it yearn;
The while it guides his willing, eager feet,
Where Triumph calls, and Victory's altars burn.
The while it prompts his head and hands to earn
That which shall place him at the front: the when
Humanity his merits shall discern,
And give to him a place of honor; then
Acknowledging a man among his fellow-men!
The Fates decreed us, at the birth of Time,
The Fates decree, and hold the fiat still,
That they who can not or who will not climb,
Be trampled down by them who can and will.
Philanthropists may take the doctrine ill,
And nobly lift their suffering fellows high;
And he who strives to clamber up the hill,
Though weak, has help, for God helps them that try;
But he who will not strive had best lie down and die!
The Fates decree, and hold the fiat still,
That they who can not or who will not climb,
Be trampled down by them who can and will.
Philanthropists may take the doctrine ill,
And nobly lift their suffering fellows high;
And he who strives to clamber up the hill,
Though weak, has help, for God helps them that try;
But he who will not strive had best lie down and die!
For hammer, axe, and spade will vex his ears,
And spindles whirl about his idle head;
The steamer's shriek will rouse his feeble fears,
The lightning-train will shake him in his bed!
The nets of cliques and clans will round him spread;
And Time—a chariot to the man who strives—
Will be a funeral car, and he its dead,
Till he unto his charnel-home arrives.
A million men have lived good corses all their lives!
And spindles whirl about his idle head;
The steamer's shriek will rouse his feeble fears,
The lightning-train will shake him in his bed!
The nets of cliques and clans will round him spread;
And Time—a chariot to the man who strives—
Will be a funeral car, and he its dead,
Till he unto his charnel-home arrives.
A million men have lived good corses all their lives!
A tiny floweret blossoms under foot,
And turns its dainty petals to the sky;
Draws life from earth and air, through leaf and root,
While yet Destruction broods and lingers nigh.
But naught that seems inaction we descry,
Though summer wanes, and autumn winds are cold;
When effort fails, the plant is fain to die;
Its energies and days at once are told;
And soon it hangs its head and crumbles to the mold.
And turns its dainty petals to the sky;
144
While yet Destruction broods and lingers nigh.
But naught that seems inaction we descry,
Though summer wanes, and autumn winds are cold;
When effort fails, the plant is fain to die;
Its energies and days at once are told;
And soon it hangs its head and crumbles to the mold.
A rainbow arches on the clouded sky,
But ne'er for long its colors flash and play;
A comet shines upon the gazing eye,
But still is speeding on its endless way.
Sun, moon, and stars—not one of them may stay;
For not an orb—howe'er it seem to stand—
But marches grandly on by night and day,
Nor cares nor dares to halt, without command
Of Him, the mighty Chief, by whom the route was planned.
But ne'er for long its colors flash and play;
A comet shines upon the gazing eye,
But still is speeding on its endless way.
Sun, moon, and stars—not one of them may stay;
For not an orb—howe'er it seem to stand—
But marches grandly on by night and day,
Nor cares nor dares to halt, without command
Of Him, the mighty Chief, by whom the route was planned.
There is not that in earth, or air, or space,
There is not that in heart, or mind, or soul
(Save in one sacred and mysterious Place),
But hurries forward to some future goal,
Or wanders back to an inglorious whole,
Wherefrom it sprung—whereto it turns to die;
And He who keeps all motion in control—
Whom change and dissolution come not nigh—
The same for evermore—is the great God on high.
There is not that in heart, or mind, or soul
(Save in one sacred and mysterious Place),
But hurries forward to some future goal,
Or wanders back to an inglorious whole,
Wherefrom it sprung—whereto it turns to die;
And He who keeps all motion in control—
Whom change and dissolution come not nigh—
The same for evermore—is the great God on high.
Man loves to clamber on the steeps of fame,
Then rest awhile his wearied limbs; and yet
Each day some fellow-man must learn his name,
To stand for one who may that name forget;
Each changing year his altitude must grow;
Or, twined about with Comfort's gaudy net,
His indolence may plot his overthrow,
And he may plunge into the deep, dead gulf below.
Then rest awhile his wearied limbs; and yet
Each day some fellow-man must learn his name,
To stand for one who may that name forget;
Each changing year his altitude must grow;
Or, twined about with Comfort's gaudy net,
His indolence may plot his overthrow,
And he may plunge into the deep, dead gulf below.
Yet many a knight who mingles in the broil
Falls, ere his sun has reached its highest place:
Death strikes the strongest reaper in his toil,
And stops the swiftest runner of the race.
But time is short, and death is no disgrace,
But rather, to the faithful man, a friend;
And leaves a glory on the marble face
Of him who holds out faithful to the end—
Whose ways are brave and true—so far as they extend.
Falls, ere his sun has reached its highest place:
145
And stops the swiftest runner of the race.
But time is short, and death is no disgrace,
But rather, to the faithful man, a friend;
And leaves a glory on the marble face
Of him who holds out faithful to the end—
Whose ways are brave and true—so far as they extend.
Then forward, men and women! let the bell
Of progress echo through each wakened mind!
Let the grand chorus through our numbers swell—
Who will not hasten shall be left behind!
Who conquers, shall a crown of glory find;
Who falls, if faithful, shall but fall to rise
Free from the tear-drenched clay that clogs mankind,
To where new triumphs greet his eager eyes;
Forward will ever be the watchword of the skies!
Of progress echo through each wakened mind!
Let the grand chorus through our numbers swell—
Who will not hasten shall be left behind!
Who conquers, shall a crown of glory find;
Who falls, if faithful, shall but fall to rise
Free from the tear-drenched clay that clogs mankind,
To where new triumphs greet his eager eyes;
Forward will ever be the watchword of the skies!
| Farm ballads | |