How happy is he born and taught
    That serveth not another’s will;
  Whose armor is his honest thought
    And simple truth his utmost skill!

  Whose passions not his masters are,
    Whose soul is still prepared for death,
  Not tied unto the world with care
    Of public fame or private breath;

  Who envies none that chance doth raise
    Or vice; who never understood
  How deepest wounds are given by praise
    Nor rules of state, but rules of good;

  Who hath his life from rumors freed,
    Whose conscience is his strong retreat;
  Whose state can neither flatterers feed,
    Nor ruin make accusers great;

  Who God doth late and early pray
    More of his grace than gifts to lend;
  And entertains the harmless day
    With a well-chosen book or friend;

 —­This man is freed from servile bands
    Of hope to rise or fear to fall;
  Lord of himself, though not of lands;
    And having nothing, yet hath all.

Sir Henry Wotton.

ESSENTIALS

The things here named are essential to a happy and successful life.  They may not be the only essentials.

    Roll up your sleeves, lad, and begin;
  Disarm misfortune with a grin;
  Let discontent not wag your chin—­
  Let gratitude.

    Don’t try to find things all askew;
  Don’t be afraid of what is new;
  Nor banish as unsound, untrue,
  A platitude.

    If folks don’t act as you would choose
  Remember life is varied; use
  Your common sense; don’t get the blues;
  Show latitude.

    Sing though in quavering sharps and flats,
  Love though the folk you love are cats,
  Work though you’re worn and weary—­that’s
  The attitude.

St. Clair Adams.

THE STONE REJECTED

The story here poetically retold of the great Florentine sculptor shows how much a lofty spirit may make of unpromising material.

  For years it had been trampled in the street
  Of Florence by the drift of heedless feet—­
  The stone that star-touched Michael Angelo
  Turned to that marble loveliness we know.

  You mind the tale—­how he was passing by
  When the rude marble caught his Jovian eye,
  That stone men had dishonored and had thrust
  Out to the insult of the wayside dust. 
  He stooped to lift it from its mean estate,
  And bore it on his shoulder to the gate,
  Where all day long a hundred hammers rang. 
  And soon his chisel round the marble sang,
  And suddenly the hidden angel shone: 
  It had been waiting prisoned in the stone.

  Thus came the cherub with the laughing face
  That long has lighted up an altar-place.

Edwin Markham.