THE SONS OF MARTHA

RUDYARD KIPLING

The Sons of Mary seldom bother, for they have inherited that

good part,

But the Sons of Martha favor their mother of the careful soul

and the troubled heart;

And because she lost her temper once, and because she was rude to the Lord, her guest,

Her Sons must wait upon Mary's Sons-world without end, reprieve or rest.

It is their care in all the ages to take the buffet and cushion the shock,

It is their care that the gear engages; it is their care that the switches lock:

It is their care that the wheels run truly; it is their care to embark and entrain,

Tally, transport and deliver duly the Sons of Mary by land and main.

They say to the mountains, "Be ye removed!" They say to the lesser floods, "Run dry!"

Under their rods are the rocks reproved-they are not afraid of that which is high;

Then do the hilltops shake to the summit, then is the bed of the deep laid bare,

That the Sons of Mary may overcome it, pleasantly sleeping and unaware.

They finger Death at their glove's end when they piece and re-piece the living wires.

He rears against the gates they tend; they feed him hungry behind their fires.

Early at dawn ere men see clear they stumble into his terrible

stall,

And hale him forth like haltered steer and goad and turn him till evenfall.

To these from birth is belief forbidden: from these till death is relief afar

They are concerned with matters hidden-under the earth-line their altars are.

The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth,

Yea, and gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drouth.

They do not preach that their God will rouse them a little before the nuts work loose;

They do not teach that his pity allows them to leave their work whenever they choose.

As in the thronged and the lightened ways, so in the dark and the desert they stand,

Wary and watchful all their days, that their brethren's days may be long in the land.

Lift ye the stone and cleave the wood, to make a path more fair or flat.

Lo! it is black already with blood some Son of Martha spilled for that.

Not as a ladder from earth to heaven, not as an altar to any creed,

But simple service, simply given to his own kind in their common need.

And the Sons of Mary smile and are blessèd-they know the angels are on their side,

They know in them is the grace confessèd, and for them are the mercies multiplied.

They sit at the Feet-they hear the Word-they know how truly the Promise runs.

They have cast their burden upon the Lord, and—the Lord he

lays it on Martha's Sons.

4. Humility

THE SHEPHERD BOY SINGS

JOHN BUNYAN

He that is down needs fear no fall,
He that is low, no pride;
He that is humble ever shall
Have God to be his guide.

I am content with what I have,
Little be it or much;

And, Lord, contentment still I crave,
Because Thou savest such.

Fullness to such a burden is
That go on pilgrimage:
Here little, and hereafter bliss
Is best from age to age.

THE HAPPIEST HEART

JOHN VANCE CHENEY

Who drives the horses of the sun
Shall lord it but a day;
Better the lowly deed were done,
And kept the humble way.

The rust will find the sword of fame,
The dust will hide the crown;
Ay, none shall nail so high his name
Time will not tear it down.

The happiest heart that ever beat
Was in some quiet breast

That found the common daylight sweet,
And left to Heaven the rest.

THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD

SAM WALTER FOSS

There are hermit souls that live withdrawn

In the place of their self-content;

There are souls like stars, that dwell apart

In a fellowless firmament.

There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths
Where the highways never ran—

But let me live by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

Let me live in a house by the side of the road,
Where the race of men go by-

The men who are good and the men who are bad,
As good and as bad as I.

I would not sit in the scorner's seat,

Or hurl the cynic's ban—

Let me live in the house by the side of the road
And be a friend to man.

I see from my house by the side of the road,
By the side of the highway of life,

The men who press with the ardor of hope,

The men who faint with strife;

But I turn not away from their smiles nor their tears

Both parts of an infinite plan

Let me live in a house by the side of the road

And be a friend to man.

I know there are brook-gladdened meadows ahead,
And mountains of wearisome height;

And the road passes on through the long afternoon,
And stretches away to the night.

But still I rejoice when the travelers rejoice,

And weep with the strangers that moan, Nor live in my house by the side of the road, Like a man who dwells alone.

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,

Where the race of men go by

They are good, they are bad, they are weak, they are strong,

Wise, foolish-—so am I.

Then why should I sit in the scorner's seat

Or hurl the cynic's ban?

Let me live in my house by the side of the road,

And be a friend to man.

O WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE

PROUD?

WILLIAM KNOX

O why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like swift-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around and together be laid;

And the young and the old, and the low and the high,
Shall moulder to dust and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved,
The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,
Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure,-her triumphs are by;
And the memory of those who have loved her and praised,
Are alike from the minds of the living erased.

The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne,
The brow of the priest that the mitre hath worn,
The eyes of the sage, and the heart of the brave,-
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.