Time hath, my lord, a wallet at his back, Wherein he puts alms for oblivion, A great-sized monster of ingrat.i.tudes: Those sc.r.a.ps are good deeds past; which are devoured As fast as they are made, forgot as soon As done: perseverance, dear my lord, Keeps honor bright: to have done, is to hang Quite out of fashion, like a rusty mail In monumental mockery. Take the instant way; For honor travels in a strait so narrow Where one but goes abreast: keep, then, the path; For emulation hath a thousand sons That one by one pursue: if you give way, Or hedge aside from the direct forthright, Like to an entered tide they all rush by And leave you hindmost; Or, like a gallant horse fallen in first rank, Lie there for pavement to the abject rear, O"errun and trampled on: then what they do in present, Though less than yours in past, must o"ertop yours; For time is like a fashionable host, That slightly shakes his parting guest by the hand, And with his arms outstretched, as he would fly, Grasps in the comer: welcome ever smiles, And farewell goes out sighing. O! let not virtue seek Remuneration for the thing it was; for beauty, wit, High birth, vigor of bone, desert in service, Love, friendship, charity, are subjects all To envious and calumniating time.
One touch of nature makes the whole world kin, That all with one consent praise new-born gawds, Though they are made and moulded of things past, And give to dust that is a little gilt More laud than gilt o"er-dusted.
The present eye praises the present object, Since things in motion sooner catch the eye Than what not stirs.
_William Shakespeare._
FAITH
Faith is not a pa.s.sive thing--mere believing or waiting. It is an active thing--a positive striving and achievement, even if conditions be untoward.
Faith is not merely praying Upon your knees at night; Faith is not merely straying Through darkness to the light.
Faith is not merely waiting For glory that may be, Faith is not merely hating The sinful ecstasy.
Faith is the brave endeavor The splendid enterprise, The strength to serve, whatever Conditions may arise.
_S.E. Kiser._
OPPORTUNITY
What is opportunity? To the brilliant mind of Senator Ingalls it is a stupendous piece of luck. It comes once and once only to every human being, wise or foolish, good or wicked. If it be not perceived on the instant, it pa.s.ses by forever. No longing for it, no effort, can bring it back. Notice that this view is fatalistic; it makes opportunity an external thing--one that enriches men or leaves their lives empty without much regard to what they deserve.
Master of human destinies am I!
Fame, love, and fortune on my footsteps wait.
Cities and fields I walk; I penetrate Deserts and seas remote, and pa.s.sing by Hovel and mart and palace--soon or late I knock, unbidden, once at every gate!
If sleeping, wake--if feasting, rise before I turn away. It is the hour of fate, And they who follow me reach every state Mortals desire, and conquer every foe Save death; but those who doubt or hesitate, Condemned to failure, penury, and woe, Seek me in vain and uselessly implore.
I answer not, and I return no more!
_John James Ingalls._
OPPORTUNITY
There is a tide in the affairs of men, Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; Omitted, all the voyage of their life Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
On such a full sea are we now afloat; And we must take the current when it serves, Or lose our ventures.
_William Shakespeare._
OPPORTUNITY
To the thought of the preceding poem we have here a direct answer. No matter how a man may have failed in the past, the door of opportunity is always open to him. He should not give way to useless regrets; he should know that the future is within his control, that it will be what he chooses to make it.
They do me wrong who say I come no more When once I knock and fail to find you in; For every day I stand outside your door, And bid you wake, and rise to fight and win.
Wail not for precious chances pa.s.sed away, Weep not for golden ages on the wane!
Each night I burn the records of the day,-- At sunrise every soul is born again!
Laugh like a boy at splendors that have sped, To vanished joys be blind and deaf and dumb; My judgments seal the dead past with its dead, But never bind a moment yet to come.
Though deep in mire, wring not your hands and weep; I lend my arm to all who say "I can!"
No shame-faced outcast ever sank so deep, But yet might rise and be again a man!
Dost thou behold thy lost youth all aghast?
Dost reel from righteous Retribution"s blow?
Then turn from blotted archives of the past, And find the future"s pages white as snow.
Art thou a mourner? Rouse thee from thy spell; Art thou a sinner? Sins may be forgiven; Each morning gives thee wings to flee from h.e.l.l, Each night a star to guide thy feet to heaven.
_Walter Malone._
OPPORTUNITY
In this poem yet another view of opportunity is presented. The recreant or the dreamer complains that he has no real chance. He would succeed, he says, if he had but the implements of success--money, influence, social prestige, and the like. But success lies far less in implements than in the use we make of them. What one man throws away as useless, another man seizes as the best means of victory at hand. For every one of us the materials for achievement are sufficient. The spirit that prompts us is what ultimately counts.
This I beheld, or dreamed it in a dream:-- There spread a cloud of dust along a plain; And underneath the cloud, or in it, raged A furious battle, and men yelled, and swords Shocked upon swords and shields. A prince"s banner Wavered, then staggered backward, hemmed by foes.
A craven hung along the battle"s edge, And thought, "Had I a sword of keener steel-- That blue blade that the king"s son bears,--but this Blunt thing--!" he snapt and flung it from his hand, And lowering crept away and left the field.
Then came the king"s son, wounded, sore bestead, And weaponless, and saw the broken sword, Hilt-buried in the dry and trodden sand, And ran and s.n.a.t.c.hed it, and with battle-shout Lifted afresh he hewed his enemy down, And saved a great cause that heroic day.
_Edward Rowland Sill._