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I give them instruments to play upon,
God choosing me to help Him."

"What! were God

At fault for violins, thou absent?"

He were at fault for Stradivari's work."

"Why, many hold Giuseppe's violins As good as thine."

"Yes;

'May be: they are different.
His quality declines: he spoils his hand
With over-drinking. But were his the best,
He could not work for two. My work is mine,
And, heresy or not, if my hand slacked

I should rob God - since He is fullest good-
Leaving a blank instead of violins.

I say, not God Himself can make man's best
Without best men to help Him. I am one best
Here in Cremona, using sunlight well
To fashion finest maple till it serves

More cunningly than throats for harmony.
'Tis rare delight: I would not change my skill
To be the Emperor with bungling hands
And lose my work, which comes as natural
As self at waking."

"Thou art little more
Than a deft potter's wheel, Antonio;
Turning out work by mere necessity
And lack of varied function. Higher arts
Subsist on freedom- eccentricity -
Uncounted inspirations — influence

That comes with drinking, gambling, talk turned wild,

Then moody misery and lack of food

With every dithyrambic fine excess:

These make at last a storm which flashes out

In lightning revelations. Steady work

Turns genius to a loom; the soul must lie
Like grapes beneath the sun till ripeness comes
And mellow vintage. I could paint you now
The finest Crucifixion; yesternight
Returning home I saw it on a sky

Blue-black, thick-starred. I want two louis d'ors
To buy the canvas and the costly blues

Trust me a fortnight."

"Where are those last two

I lent thee for thy Judith? her thou saw'st
In saffron gown, with Holofernes' head

And beauty all complete?"

"She is but sketched:

I lack the proper model- and the mood.

A great idea is an eagle's egg,

Craves time for hatching; while the eagle sits
Feed her."

"If thou wilt call thy pictures eggs

I call the hatching, Work. "Tis God gives skill,
But not without men's hands: He could not make
Antonio Stradivari's violins

Without Antonio. Get thee to thy easel."

VOLUNTARY SERVICE

Extract from Paradise Lost

JOHN MILTON

SON of Heaven and Earth,

Attend! That thou art happy, owe to God;
That thou continuest such, owe to thyself,
That is, to thy obedience; therein stand.
This was that caution given thee; be advised.
God made thee perfect, not immutable;
And good he made thee; but to persevere
He left it in thy power — ordained thy will
By nature free, not over-ruled by fate
Inextricable, or strict necessity.
Our voluntary service he requires,

Not our necessitated. Such with him
Finds no acceptance, nor can find; for how
Can hearts not free be tried whether they serve
Willing or no, who will but what they must
By destiny, and can no other choose?
Myself, and all the Angelic Host, that stand
In sight of God enthroned, our happy state
Hold, as you yours, while our obedience holds.
On other surety none; freely we serve
Because we freely love, as in our will
To love or not; in this we stand or fall.

And when he fell in whirlwind, he went down
As when a lordly cedar, green with boughs,
Goes down with a great shout upon the hills,
And leaves a lonesome place against the sky.

WANTED

J. G. HOLLAND

GOD give us men! A time like this demands
Strong minds, great hearts, true faith, and ready hands;
Men whom the lust of office does not kill;

Men whom the spoils of office cannot buy;

Men who possess opinions and a will;

Men who have honor, - men who will not lie;

Men who can stand before a demagogue,

And damn his treacherous flatteries without winking! Tall men, sun-crowned, who live above the fog

In public duty, and in private thinking:

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For while the rabble, with their thumb-worn creeds,
Their large professions and their little deeds,
Mingle in selfish strife, lo! Freedom weeps,
Wrong rules the land, and waiting Justice sleeps!

THE NEED OF THE HOUR

EDWIN MARKHAM

FLING forth the triple-colored flag to dare
The bright, untraveled highways of the air.
Blow the undaunted bugles, blow, and yet
Let not the boast betray us to forget.

Lo, there are high adventures for this hour —
Tourneys to test the sinews of our power.
For we must parry — as the years increase
The hazards of success, the risks of peace!

What do we need to keep the nation whole,
To guard the pillars of the State? We need
The fine audacities of honest deed;
The homely old integrities of soul;
The swift temerities that take the part
Of outcast right- the wisdom of the heart;
Brave hopes that Mammon never can detain,
Nor sully with his gainless clutch for gain.

We need the Cromwell fire to make us feel
The common burden and the public trust
To be a thing as sacred and august
As the white vigil where the angels kneel.
We need the faith to go a path untrod,
The power to be alone and vote with God.

PEACE

PRESTON WILLIAM SLOSSON

TRANSMUTE the ancient valor of arrow, pike and sword, The virtues which the weary march and the battlefield

afford;

Courage and faith reblazon for the needful work of peace,

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