Classic Poem

Hark ye, my brothers! health is happiness,
With each full breath of God's untainted air,
Fresh from the fair, cloud-tumbled skies, that bless
The ruffled seas with plowing gales, and share
Their showers with the earth—we none the less
May drink in heart-strength to crush out despair.
Health is a god that makes each field we tread,
Rich with a harvest of celestial bread.

The arm that pulls a killing stroke, as well
Can train the pen along a sonnet's line:
The body hath its glory—truth to tell
There's much that's noble, God-like, and divine
In flesh and blood; the mind can best excel
When action feeds each pulse with life's red wine:
Breasting a hill-side, one may catch a thought
Winged with the fire which old Prometheus brought.

God's laws, and Nature's teach us not to slay,
But cherish life; the text which says else, lies.
The body is of earth—Then while we stay,
He does his duty by his soul, who tries
To make more fit its tenement of clay
As he who seeks to save it when he dies.
The prince of fools is he, who thinks, to dwell
In torture here, can save his soul from hell.

But, Oh! one word!—while ye seek health and pleasure,
Forget not those who seek—and seek in vain.
Give—when ye find it—from your store of treasure,
For he that gives, is he that most shall gain:
So set your strength a field, that in some measure
Ye may cheer others, doomed to hopeless pain.
The beauty of all strength is still to seek
How it shall cheer the helpless and the weak.