Love hath the voice of the storm at night,
    Wildly defiant. 
  Hear him and yield up your soul to his might,
    Tenderly pliant. 
  None shall regret him who heed him aright;
  Love hath the voice of the storm at night.

FOR THE MAN WHO FAILS

  The world is a snob, and the man who wins
    Is the chap for its money’s worth: 
  And the lust for success causes half of the sins
    That are cursing this brave old earth. 
  For it ’s fine to go up, and the world’s applause
    Is sweet to the mortal ear;
  But the man who fails in a noble cause
    Is a hero that ’s no less dear.

  ’T is true enough that the laurel crown
    Twines but for the victor’s brow;
  For many a hero has lain him down
    With naught but the cypress bough. 
  There are gallant men in the losing fight,
    And as gallant deeds are done
  As ever graced the captured height
    Or the battle grandly won.

  We sit at life’s board with our nerves highstrung,
    And we play for the stake of Fame,
  And our odes are sung and our banners hung
    For the man who wins the game. 
  But I have a song of another kind
    Than breathes in these fame-wrought gales,—­
  An ode to the noble heart and mind
    Of the gallant man who fails!

  The man who is strong to fight his fight,
    And whose will no front can daunt,
  If the truth be truth and the right be right,
    Is the man that the ages want. 
  Tho’ he fail and die in grim defeat,
    Yet he has not fled the strife,
  And the house of Earth will seem more sweet
    For the perfume of his life.

HARRIET BEECHER STOWE

  She told the story, and the whole world wept
    At wrongs and cruelties it had not known
    But for this fearless woman’s voice alone. 
    She spoke to consciences that long had slept: 
  Her message, Freedom’s clear reveille, swept
    From heedless hovel to complacent throne. 
    Command and prophecy were in the tone
    And from its sheath the sword of justice leapt. 
  Around two peoples swelled a fiery wave,
    But both came forth transfigured from the flame. 
  Blest be the hand that dared be strong to save,
    And blest be she who in our weakness came—­
    Prophet and priestess!  At one stroke she gave
    A race to freedom and herself to fame.

VAGRANTS

  Long time ago, we two set out,
    My soul and I.
    I know not why,
  For all our way was dim with doubt. 
    I know not where
    We two may fare: 
  Though still with every changing weather,
  We wander, groping on together.

  We do not love, we are not friends,
    My soul and I.
    He lives a lie;
  Untruth lines every way he wends. 
    A scoffer he
    Who jeers at me: 
  And so, my comrade and my brother,
  We wander on and hate each other.