im our noble heritage above!

OUR HEROES

The winds that once the Argo bore
Have died by Neptune's ruined shrines,
And her hull is the drift of the deep sea floor,
Though shaped of Pelion's tallest pines.
You may seek her crew in every isle,
Fair in the foam of Aegean seas,
But out of their sleep no charm can wile
Jason and Orpheus and Hercules.

And Priam's voice is heard no more
By windy Illium's sea-built walls;
From the washing wave and the lonely shore
No wail goes up as Hector falls.
On Ida's mount is the shining snow,
But Jove has gone from its brow away,
And red on the plain the poppies grow
Where Greek and Trojan fought that day.

Mother Earth! Are thy heroes dead?
Do they thrill the soul of the years no more?
Are the gleaming snows and the poppies red
All that is left of the brave of yore?
Are there none to fight as Theseus fought,
Far in the young world's misty dawn?
Or teach as the gray-haired Nestor taught?
Mother Earth! Are thy heroes gone?

Gone?--in a nobler form they rise;
Dead?--we may clasp their hands in ours,
And catch the light of their glorious eyes,
And wreathe their brows with immortal flowers.
Whenever a noble deed is done,
There are the souls of our heroes stirred;
Whenever a field for truth is won,
There are our heroes' voices heard.

Their armor rings in a fairer field
Than Greek or Trojan ever trod,
For Freedom's sword is the blade they wield,
And the light above them the smile of God!
So, in his Isle of calm delight,
Jason may dream the years away,
But the heroes live, and the skies are bright,
And the world is a braver world to-day.

--Edna Dean Proctor.

The hero is not fed on sweets,
Daily his own heart he eats;
Chambers of the great are jails,
And head winds right for royal sails.

--Ralph Waldo Emerson.

TRIUMPH OF THE MARTYRS

They seemed to die on battle-field,
To die with justice, truth, and law;
The bloody corpse, the broken shield,
Were all that senseless folly saw.
But, like Antaeus from the turf,
They sprung refreshed, to strive again,
Where'er the savage and the serf
Rise to the rank of men.

They seemed to die by sword and fire,
Their voices hushed in endless sleep;