“Sit not down in the
popular seats and common level of virtues, but endeavor to make them
heroical. Offer not only peace-offerings but holocausts unto
God.”7 To the brave soldier the rust and
leisure of peace are harder than the fatigues of war. As our bodies court
physical encounters, and languish in the mild and even climate of the
tropics, so our souls thrive best on unrest and discontent. The soul is a
sterner master than any King Frederick, for a true bravery would subject our
bodies to rougher usage than even a grenadier could withstand. We too are
dwellers within the purlieus of the camp. When the sun breaks through the
morning mist, I seem to hear the din of war louder than when his chariot
thundered on the plains of Troy. The thin fields of vapor, spread like gauze
over the woods, form extended lawns whereon high tournament is held;
Before each van
Prick forth the aery knights, and couch their spears,
Till thickest legions close.
It behoves us to make life a steady progression, and not be defeated by its
opportunities. The stream which first fell a drop from heaven, should be
filtered by events till it burst out into springs of greater purity, and
extract a diviner flavor from the accidents through which it passes. Shall
man wear out sooner than the sun? and not rather dawn as freshly, and with
such native dignity stalk down the hills of the East into the bustling vale
of life, with as lofty and serene a countenance to roll onward through
midday, to a yet fairer and more promising setting? In the crimson colors of
the west I discern the budding hues of dawn. To my western brother it is
rising pure and bright as it did to me; but only the evening exhibits in the
still rear of day, the beauty which through morning and noon escaped me. Is
not that which we call the gross atmosphere of evening the accumulated deed
of the day, which absorbs the rays of beauty, and shows more richly than the
naked promise of the dawn? Let us look to it that by earnest toil in the heat
of the noon, we get ready a rich western blaze against the evening.
Nor need we fear that the time will hang heavy when our toil is done; for our
task is not such a piece of day-labor, that a man must be thinking what he
shall do next for a livelihood, — but such, that as it began in
endeavor, so will it end only when no more in heaven or on earth remains to
be endeavored. Effort is the prerogative of virtue. Let not death be the sole
task of life, — the moment when we are rescued from death to life, and
set to work, — if indeed that can be called a task which all things do
but alleviate. Nor will we suffer our hands to lose one jot of their
handiness by looking behind to a mean recompense; knowing that our endeavor
cannot be thwarted, nor we be cheated of our earnings unless by not earning
them. It concerns us, rather, to be somewhat here present, than to leave
something behind us; for, if that were to be considered, it is never the deed
men praise, but some marble or canvas, which are only a staging to the real
work. The hugest and most effective deed may have no sensible result at all
on earth, but may paint itself in the heavens with new stars and
constellations. When in rare moments our whole being strives with one
consent, which we name a yearning, we may not hope that our work will stand
in any artist’s gallery on earth.
