never closing book before midnight,
leaving Cambridge with the approbation of the good, and without stain
or spot upon his life. Afterward, making a pilgrimage to Italy for
study in that land of song and story, he heard of the civil wars in
England, and at once returned, putting away his ambition for culture
because he thought it base to be traveling in ease and safety abroad
while his fellow-citizens were fighting for liberty at home. When he
resisted a brutal soldier's attack who lifted his sword to say, "I
have power to kill you," the scholar replied: "And I have power to be
killed and to despise my murderer." Growing old and blind, and falling
upon evil days and tongues, out of his heroic life he wrote his
immortal poem. Dying, he still pursued his ideal, for moving into the
valley and shadow, the blind poet whispered: "Still guides the
heavenly vision!"

Did men but know it, this is the secret of all heroic greatness. Here
is that matchless old Greek, Socrates, sitting in the prison talking
with his friends of death and immortality, of the truth and beauty he
hopes to find beyond. With one hand he rubs his leg, chafed by the
harsh fetters, with the other he holds the cup of poison. When the sun
touched the horizon he took the cup of death from the jailer's hand,
and with shining face went down into the valley, and midst the thick
shadows passed forever from mortal sight, still pursuing his vision
splendid. And here is that pure-white martyr girl, painted by Millais,
staked down in the sea midst the rising tide, but looking toward the
open sky, with a great, sweet light upon her face. Here is Luther
surrounded by scowling soldiers and hungry, wolfish priests, looking
upward and then flinging out his challenge, "I cannot and I will not
recant, God help me." Here is John Brown, with body all pierced with
bullets and grievously sore, stooping to kiss the child as he went on
to the gallows, with heart as high as on his wedding day. And here is
that Christian nurse who followed the line of battle close up to the
rifle-pits, and kindled her fire and prepared hot drinks for dying
men; who, when asked by the colonel who told her to build those fires,
made answer: "God Almighty, sir!" and went right on to fulfill her
vision. And here is Livingstone, with his grand craggy head and
deep-set eyes, found in the heart of Africa, dead beside his couch,
with ink scarcely dry on words that interpreted his vision: "God bless
all me