O, well for him whose will is strong! He suffers, but he will not suffer long; He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong. For him nor moves the loud world's random mock, Nor all Calamity's hugest waves confound, Who seems a promontory of rock, That, compassed round with turbulent sound, In middle ocean meets the surging shock, Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crowned.
Whene'er a noble deed is wrought, Whene'er is spoken a noble thought, Our hearts in glad surprise, To higher levels rise.
The tidal wave of deeper souls Into our inmost being rolls, And lifts us unawares Out of all meaner cares.
Honor to those whose words or deeds Thus help us in our daily needs, And by their overflow Raise us from what is low!
Not on the gory field of fame Their noble deeds were done; Not in the sound of earth's acclaim Their fadeless crowns were won. Not from the palaces of kings, Nor fortune's sunny clime, Came the great souls, whose life-work flings Luster o'er earth and time.
For truth with tireless zeal they sought; In joyless paths they trod-- Heedless of praise or blame they wrought, And left the rest to God. The lowliest sphere was not disdained; Where love could soothe or save, They went, by fearless faith sustained, Nor knew their deeds were brave.
The foes with which they waged their strife Were passion, self, and sin; The victories that laureled life Were fought and won within. Not names in gold emblazoned here, And great and good confessed, In Heaven's immortal scroll appear As noblest and as best.
No sculptured stone in stately temple Proclaims their rugged lot; Like Him who was their great example, This vain world knew them not. But though their names no poet wove In deathless song or story, Their record is inscribed above; Their wreaths are crowns of glory.
"Even in a palace, life may be led well!" So spoke the imperial sage, purest of men, Marcus Aurelius. But the stifling den Of common life, where, crowded up pell-mell, Our freedom for a little bread we sell, And drudge under some foolish master's ken, Who rates us if we peer outside our pen-- Matched with a palace, is not this a hell? "Even in a palace!" On his truth sincere, Who spoke these words no shadow ever came; And when my ill-schooled spirit is aflame Some nobler, ampler stage of life to win, I'll stop and say: "There were no succor here! The aids to noble life are all within."