Poems (Ford)/Heroism

HEROISM.

The age of heroes is not dead,
Nor numbered with the past;
Each day calls forth some daring deed
More brilliant than the last;
Each day some noble sacrifice
Made in a glorious cause
Bids earth to her foundations shake
With thunders of applause.

The hero stands, a demi-god,
'Mid the admiring crowd
That sounds the trumpet of his fame
In plaudits long and loud; .
Their praise is music to his ears—
Yet had he toiled the same,
And failure, not success, been his,
How would he bear their blame?

And though unmoved where passion rolls
A fiercely flaming flood
Of strife across a nation's breast
That must be quenched in blood,
Though fearless mid the tempest's rage
And foremost in the strife,
The hero of an hour may be
The coward of a life.

But more heroic is the soul
That acts its humble part,
And makes its quiet dwelling-place
In woman's faithful heart;
That praise or blame, or coward fear
Of what the world will say,
Can never for a moment lure
From its appointed way.

For whether by the household hearth
Or in the convent cell,
Or 'mid the haunts where pale disease
And sad-browed sorrow dwell,
Her trials, struggles, cares and woes
She bravely bears alone;
Her life is full of hero-deeds
To the great world unknown.

Though many a dreary path she strews
With flowers of mercy sweet,
Oft in her own sharp thorns are thrown
That pierce her weary feet;
Yet patient, uncomplaining still,
She toils as seasons roll,
Wearing perhaps a careless smile
To hide a martyr-soul.

As sweetly in some quiet dell
The violet, newly blown,
Breathes fragrance on the passer-by,
Itself unseen, unknown,
Distilling balm for others' woes,
She spends her quiet days,
Content to see her noblest works
Win blame instead of praise.

The world may have no meed of praise,
No laurel-wreath to give
To those who daily walk with death
That others yet may live,
Who stanch the blood that laureled brows
Have caused in streams to flow,
But angels twine unfading crowns
For those uncrowned below.

The hero true, forgetting self,
Will ready ever stand
To live, to suffer, or to die
For God or native land;
But while you give him honor due,
Pass not unheeding by
Her whose brave soul endures and lives
Where he could only die.