Who strove and who failed, acting bravely a silent and desperate part;
Whose youth bore no flower on its branches, whose hopes burned in ashes
away,
From whose hands slipped the prize they had grasped at, who stood at
the dying of day
With the wreck of their life all around them, unpitied, unheeded,
alone,
With death swooping down o'er their failure, and all but their faith
overthrown.

While the voice of the world shouts its chorus--its pean for those who
have won;
While the trumpet is sounding triumphant, and high to the breeze and
the sun
Glad banners are waving, hands clapping, and hurrying feet
Thronging after the laurel-crowned victors, I stand on the field of
defeat,
In the shadow, with those who are fallen, and wounded, and dying, and
there
Chant a requiem low, place my hand on their pain-knotted brows, breathe
a prayer,
Hold the hand that is helpless, and whisper, "They only the victory
win,
Who have fought the good fight and have vanquished the demon that
tempts us within;
Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world
holds on high;
Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, resist, fight--if need be,
to die."

Speak, History! who are Life's victors? Unroll thy long annals and say,
Are they those whom the world called the victors? who won the success
of a day?
The martyrs, or Nero? The Spartans who fell at Thermopylae's tryst,
Or the Persians and Xerxes? His judges, or Socrates? Pilate, or Christ?

--William M. Story.

He makes no friend who never made a foe.

--Alfred Tennyson.

THE TRUE KING

'Tis not wealth that makes a king,
Nor the purple coloring;
Nor the brow that's bound with gold,
Nor gate on mighty hinges rolled.

The king is he who, void of fear,
Looks abroad with bosom clear;
Who can tread ambition down,
Nor be swayed by smile or frown,
Nor for all the treasure cares,
That mine conceals or harvest wears,
Or that golden sands deliver
Bosomed in the glassy river.

What shall move his placid might?
Not the headlong thunder's light,
Nor all the shapes of slaughter's trade,
With onward lance or fiery blade.
Safe, with wisdom for his crown,
He looks on all things calmly down,
He welcomes Fate when Fate is near,