That is not passion's slave, and I will wear him
In my heart's core,―ay, in my heart of heart.
WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.
And indeed he seems to me
Scarce other than my own ideal knight,
"Who reverenced his conscience as his king;
Whose glory was, redressing human wrong;
Who spake no slander, no, nor listen'd to it;
Who loved one only and who clave to her ·
We see him as he moved,
How modest, kindly, all-accomplished, wise,
With what sublime repression of himself,
And in what limits, and how tenderly;
Not swaying to this faction or to that;
Not making his high place a lawless perch
Of winged ambitions, nor a vantage-ground
For pleasure; but thro' all this tract of years
Wearing the white flower of a blameless life.
Idylls of the King.
MY KINGDOM.
A little kingdom I possess,
Where thoughts and feelings dwell,
And very hard I find the task
Of governing it well;
For passion tempts and troubles me,
A wayward will misleads,
And selfishness its shadow casts
On all my words and deeds.
How can I learn to rule myself,
To be the child I should,
Honest and brave, nor ever tire
Of trying to be good?
How can I keep a sunny soul
To shine along life's way?
How can I tune my little heart
To sweetly sing all day?
Dear Father, help me with the love
That casteth out my fear;
Teach me to lean on thee, and feel
That thou art very near,
That no temptation is unseen,
No childish grief too small,
Since thou, with patience infinite,
Doth soothe and comfort all.
I do not ask for any crown
But that which all may win,
Nor seek to conquer any world
Except the one within.
Be thou my guide until I find,
Led by a tender hand,
Thy happy kingdom in myself
And dare to take command.
I count life just a stuff
To try the soul's strength on, educe the man.
Who keeps one end in view makes all things serve.
In a Balcony.
ROBERT BROWNING.
And make a place in thy heart for her,
And give her time to grow and cherish her;
Then will she come and oft will sing to thee
When thou art working in the furrows; ay,
Or weeding in the sacred hour of dawn.
It is a comely fashion to be glad -
Joy is the grace we say to God.
No endeavor is in vain ;
Its reward is in the doing,
And the rapture of pursuing
Is the prize the vanquished gain.
The Wind over the Chimney. HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
FOR FORTY YEARS.
At the Alpha Delta Phi Convention, May 8, 1879.
For forty years
Of mingled hopes and fears,
Of tales of battle, told with bated breath,
Of peace, returning with her olive wreath,
Of love, of joy, of sorrow, and of death!
For suns will sink, and twilights melt away,
Cool evenings hurry on, nor midnight stay,
But at the summons of the morn e'en night grows gray, Stars fade from sight, and lo, the light, the day!
Such change from day to night,
From dark to light,
Fills up the record of my forty years.
You boys look forward on another page.
The hall is dressed; the candles are not lit;
The page is white,—the annals are not writ;
The stage is set, the curtain pulled away,
The actors dressed and ready for the play,
And I for chorus stand;
Is it for me
To say if it be farce or tragedy?
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