Of Babylon, of Babylon.

And Babylon's towers smite the sky,
But higher reeks to God most high
The smoke of her iniquity:

"But oh, betwixt the green and blue
To walk the hills that once we knew
When you were pure and I was true."-
So rang the harps of Babylon-
"Or ere along the roads of stone
Had led us captive one by one
The subtle gods of Babylon."

The harps hung up in Babylon
Hung silent till the prophet dawn,
When Judah's feet the highway burned
Back to the holy hills returned,
And shook their dust on Babylon.
In Zion's halls the wild harps rang,
To Zion's walls their smitten clang,
And lo! of Babylon they sang,
They only sang of Babylon:

"Jehovah, round whose throne of awe The vassal stars their orbits draw Within the circle of Thy law,

Canst thou make nothing what is done,
Or cause thy servant to be one
That has not been in Babylon,

That has not known the power and pain
Of life poured out like driven rain?
I will go down and find again

My soul that's lost in Bobylon."

VIRTUE

GEORGE HERBERT

Sweet day, so cool, so calm, so bright!
The bridal of the earth and sky:

The dew shall weep thy fall tonight;
For thou must die.

Sweet rose, whose hue, angry and brave
Bids the rash gazer wipe his eye:
Thy root is ever in the grave,

And thou must die.

Sweet spring, full of sweet days and roses,
A box where sweets compacted lie;
My music shows ye have your closes,
And all must die.

Only a sweet and virtuous soul,
Like seasoned timber, never gives;

But though the whole world turn to coal,
Then chiefly lives.

THE TREE AND THE CHAFF

PSALM I

From Moulton's Modern Reader's Bible

Blessed is the man that walketh not in the counsels of the

wicked

Nor standeth in the way of sinners,

Nor sitteth in the seat of the scornful.

But his delight is in the law of the Lord,

And in his law doth he meditate day and night.

And he shall be like a tree planted by the streams of water,

That bringeth its fruit in its season,

Whose leaf also doth not wither;

And whatsoever he doeth shall prosper.

The wicked are not so;

But are like the chaff which the wind driveth away.

Therefore the wicked shall not stand in the judgment,
Nor sinners in the congregation of the righteous.

For the LORD knoweth the way of the righteous;
But the way of the wicked shall perish.

THE PILGRIM

RICHARD WIGHTMAN

I am my ancient self,
Long paths I've trod,
The living light before,

Behind, the rod:

And in the beam and blow
The misty God.

I am my ancient self.
My flesh is young,
But old, mysterious words
Engage my tongue,
And weird, lost songs

Old bards have sung.

I have not fared alone.
In mount and dell
The one I fain would be
Stands by me well,

And bids my man's heart list

To the far bell.

Give me nor ease nor goal

Only the Way,

A bit of bread and sleep

Where the white waters play,

The pines, the patient stars,
And the new day.

THE SERVANTS

RICHARD WIGHTMAN

Singers, sing! The hoary world Needs reminder of its youth: Prophet, tell! The darkness lies. On the labyrinths of truth:

Builder, build! Let rocks uprise
Into cities 'neath thy hand:
Farmer, till! The sun and rain

Hearken for the seed's demand:
Artist, paint! Thy canvases
Patiently convey thy soul:

Writer, write! With pen blood-dipped
Trace no segment, but the whole :
Teacher, teach! Thyself the creed-
Only that a child may know:
Dreamer, dream! Nor hide thy face
Though thy castles crumble low.
Where the toiler turns the sod
Man beholds the living God.

7. Loyalty to Duty

RESOLVE

CHARLOTTE PERKINS GILMAN

To keep my health!

To do my work!

To live!

To see to it I grow and gain and give!
Never to look behind me for an hour!

To wait in weakness and to walk in power.
But always fronting onward toward the light
Always and always facing toward the right,
Robbed, starved, defeated, fallen, wide astray-
On with what strength I have

Back to the way!

THE NAMELESS SAINTS

EDWARD EVERETT HALE

I

What was his name? I do not know his name.
I only know he heard God's voice and came,
Brought all he had across the sea
To live and work for God and me;
Felled the ungracious oak;
Dragged from the soil

With horrid toil

The thrice-gnarled roots and stubborn rock;
With plenty piled the haggard mountain-side;
And at the end, without memorial, died.
No blaring trumpets sounded out his fame,
He lived, he died,-I do not know his name.

II

No form of bronze and no memorial stones

Show me the place where lie his mouldering bones.

Only a cheerful city stands

Builded by his hardened hands.

Only ten thousand homes

Where every day

The cheerful play

Of love and hope and courage comes.

These are his monument, and these alone.

There is no form of bronze and no memorial stone.

III

And I?

Is there some desert or some pathless sea

Where Thou, Good God of angels, wilt send me?

Some oak for me to rend; some sod,

Some rock for me to break;

Some handful of His corn to take