urn.

'Tis as easy to be heroes as to sit the idle slaves
Of a legendary virtue carved upon our fathers' graves.
Worshipers of light ancestral make the present light a crime;
Was the Mayflower launched by cowards, steered by men behind their
time?
Turn those tracks toward past or future that make Plymouth Rock
sublime?

They have rights who dare maintain them; we are traitors to our
sires,
Smothering in their holy ashes freedom's new-lit altar fires.
Shall we make their creed our jailer? Shall we, in our haste to
slay,
From the tombs of the old prophets steal the funeral lamps away
To light the martyr-fagots round the prophets of to-day?

New occasions teach new duties; time makes ancient good uncouth;
They must upward still and onward, who would keep abreast of truth;
Lo, before us gleam her camp-fires! We ourselves must Pilgrims be,
Launch our Mayflower, and steer boldly through the desperate winter
sea,
Nor attempt the future's portal with the past's blood-rusted key.

FOOTNOTE:

[25] Used by permission of Houghton, Mifflin & Co., authorized
publishers of this author's works.

THE RECESSIONAL

RUDYARD KIPLING

God of our fathers, known of old--
Lord of our far-flung battle line--
Beneath whose awful hand we hold
Dominion over palm and pine;
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget,--lest we forget.

The tumult and the shouting dies,
The captains and the kings depart--
Still stands thine ancient sacrifice,
An humble and a contrite heart.
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget,--lest we forget.

If, drunk with sight of power, we loose
Wild tongues that have not thee in awe--
Such boastings as the Gentiles use,
Or lesser breeds without the Law--
Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,
Lest we forget,--lest we forget!

For heathen heart that puts her trust
In reeking tube and iron shard--
All valiant dust that builds on dust,
And guarding calls not thee to guard,
For frantic boast and foolish word,
Thy mercy on thy people, Lord!

THE SACREDNESS OF WORK

THOMAS CARLYLE

All true work is sacred; in all true hand-labor, there is something of
divineness. Labor, wide as the earth, has its summit in Heaven. Sweat of
the brow; and up from