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 The secret fountains to follow up, waters withdrawn to restore to the mouth, Yea, and gather the floods as in a cup, and pour them again at a city's drought. 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 Sons 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 blessed-they know the angels are on their side, They know that in them is the grace confessed, and for them are the mercies multiplied. They sit at the feet and they hear the Word-they know how truly the Promise runs. They have cast their burden on the Lord, and-the Lord he lays it on Martha's Sons. 4. Humility THE SHEPHERD BOY SINGS JOHN BUNYAN He that is down need fear no fall, I am content with what I have, And, Lord, contentment still I crave, Fullness to such a burden is THE HAPPIEST HEART JOHN VANCE CHENEY Who drives the horses of the sun The rust will find the sword of fame, The happiest heart that ever beat That found the common daylight sweet, THE HOUSE BY THE SIDE OF THE ROAD SAM WALTER FOSS There are hermit souls that live withdrawn In the peace of their self-content; There are souls, like stars, that dwell apart In a fellowless firmament. There are pioneer souls that blaze their paths 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, The men who are good and the men who are bad, 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 I see from my house by the side of the road, 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 the road passes on through the long afternoon 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? The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade, And the young and the old, and the low and the high, The child that a mother attended and loved, The maid on whose cheek, in whose brow, in whose eye, The hand of the king that the sceptre hath borne, |