A poet was gifted with genius, And he sang, and he sang all the days. He wrote for the praise of the people, But the people accorded no praise. Oh! his songs were as blithe as the morning, As sweet as the music of birds; But the world had no homage to offer, Because they were nothing but words.
Time sped. And the poet through sorrow Became like his suffering kind. Again he toiled over his poems To lighten the grief of his mind. They were not so flowing and rhythmic As those of his earlier years; But the world? lo! it offered its homage, Because they were written in tears.
So ever the price must be given By those seeking glory in art; So ever the world is repaying The grief-stricken, suffering heart. The happy must ever be humble; Ambition must wait for the years Ere hoping to win the approval Of a world that looks on through its tears.
What does our country need? No armies standing With sabres gleaming ready for the fight; Not increased navies, skilful and commanding, To bound the waters with an iron might; Not haughty men with glutted purses trying To purchase souls, and keep the power of place; Not jewelled dolls with one another vying For palms of beauty, elegance, and grace.
But we want women, strong of soul, yet lowly, With that rare meekness, born of gentleness; Women whose lives are pure and clean and holy, The women whom all little children bless; Brave, earnest women, helpful to each other, With finest scorn for all things low and mean; Women who hold the names of wife and mother Far nobler than the title of a queen.
Oh! these are they who mould the men of story, These mothers, ofttimes shorn of grace and youth, Who, worn and weary, ask no greater glory Than making some young soul the home of truth; Who sow in hearts all fallow for the sowing The seeds of virtue and of scorn for sin, And, patient, watch the beauteous harvest growing And weed out tares which crafty hands cast in;
Women who do not hold the gift of beauty As some rare treasure to be bought and sold. But guard it as a precious aid to duty— The outer framing of the inner gold; Women who, low above their cradles bending, Let flattery’s voice go by, and give no heed, While their pure prayers like incense are ascending _These_ are our country’s pride, our country’s need,