There are cloudy, sullen skies, But what of that? There are discontented eyes, But what of that? When the day is gloomiest, Over on the hill-tops west There is sunshine. Brother, best Think of that. There are dour looks enough, But what of that? Tasks forbidding, hard and rough, But what of that? Though the vale the weather spoils, On the hill-tops there are miles Of old Sol’s unconquered smiles; What of that? Living in the valley long, Maybe that Quenched the laughter and the song; But for that, Hearts might look to higher hills, Kissed by sun and full of rills, Smiling over cares and ills. Think of that! THE MAN WHO BEARS THE HODGo, mould and burn the clay to brick With all the skill of ages; It took the shovel and the pick Before it took the sages. But leaving that to honor’s past For things which men applaud, Who is it makes the pile so vast, An edifice to rise and last? The man who bears the hod. The potter and the architect May shape and plan the temple, The master-builders may erect, Ennoble or assemble; But leaving that to future fame For things we rarely laud, Who is it carries up the frame On shoulders called in lieu of name The man who bears the hod? The dreamer and the statesman may InspirÈd be with genius, And in the oven put the clay That rears renown between us; But who must heap the bricks they mould On backs and bases broad, Toil up the scaffolds and uphold The towers growing high and bold? The man who bears the hod. JOG ALONG!Jog along! Jog along! The day is young, the goal’s ahead, The limbs are strong and hope is fed On promises where’er you look, Of nodding bud and laughing brook. Cheer up! Cheer up! while there’s a song Of bird or smile of sunny nook, There’s love and bread. So jog along! Jog along! Jog along! ’Tis only noon and there’s an inn Where you may soon an hour win Of humble fellowship and fare— A luxury of life too rare. Hail, friend well met, who in the throng Is brotherly in spite of care! There’s human kin—so jog along! Jog along! Jog along! The sun goes down but twilight’s still To reach the town upon the hill; And there the sun’s an hour high To give thee grace of foot and eye. Keep on! Keep on! with dauntless will; You’ve still the promise of the sky The stars until! So jog along! THE FAMILY TREEYour genealogy may be The finest thing on earth Or merely a decadent tree Of past descent and worth. The children of the Puritans Should have the Pilgrims’ souls Or else an alien wire spans Your insulated poles. An aristocracy of breed Is that which keeps the stamp Of spirit from heroic deed In patriot hall or camp. The veins whose life-blood flows for home Or right or liberty Should be the same from which they come, To keep the nation free. To find in our ancestral line A sire of noble blood Puts on us truth to make the sign Of our escutcheon good. Colonial forbears condemn Like ghosts from hollow boles Unless we reincarnate them Without their shrouds and stoles. To be well-born a century back, A century of fruit, A century the soil to pack About the ancient root, Is such a heritage we well May trace it to its source For all from which its scions swell, Its vital ichors course. REPLEVINWho can replevin all his own From his platonic debtors— From plagiarists perchance unknown Who steal his thoughts or letters? His property is small or great As it is worth the using, And such a tribute to his rate Makes property worth losing. To say or do a thing that’s fine, Which makes the world the wiser, Should be a royalty divine To any but a miser. Their pound of flesh let Shylocks sue And bank in figures seven— Our noblest own is what is due In goods beyond replevin. |
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