Great deeds are trumpeted; loud bells are rung,
And men turn round to see
The high peaks echo to the peans sung
O'er some great victory.
And yet great deeds are few. The mightiest men
Find opportunities but now and then.
Shall one sit idle through long days of peace,
Waiting for walls to scale?
Or lie in port until some "Golden Fleece"
Lures him to face the gale?
There's work enough: why idly, then, delay?
His work counts most who labors every day.
A torrent sweeps down the mountain's brow,
With foam and Hash and roar.
Anon its strength is spent—where is it now?
Its one short day is o'er.
But the clear stream that through the meadow flows
All the long summer on its mission goes.
Better the steady flow: the torrent's dash
Soon leaves its rent track dry.
Thelightwe love is not a lightning flash
From out a midnight sky.
But the sweet sunshine, whose unfailing ray,
From its calm throne of blue lights every day.
The sweetest lives are those to duty wed—
Whose deeds both great and small,
Are close-knit strands of one unbroken thread,
Where love ennobles all.
The world may sound no trumpets, ring no bells—
The Book of Life the shining record tells.
