Truest Heroes Are Unknown.

All worthies are not sung in song.             That live their lives and do their deeds             Where wounded nature writhes and bleeds         Beneath the savage blows of wrong;         From humble duties tender grown,         The truest heroes are unknown.         The heart that toils where none may know             And uncomplaining conquers care,             To save his loved ones or to spare         His fellows from the pangs of woe,         Is more the hero than who shields         His country on the bleeding fields.         He claims no praises for his love,             He seeks no tribute for his worth,             But sows the desert hearts of earth         With blossoms from the vales above;         And in their sunshine warm and bright         He holds these duties as his right.         Where lives are dark with dismal groans             Great men are often chained by fate,             And oft are slaves more truly great         Than princes on their purple thrones;         But servant brows are bound with shame,         While monarchs flutter into fame.         Deeds pure and noble, gladly done,             Unselfish work for sickly souls             When sorrow in black surges rolls         And gloomy darkness hides the sun,--         These in their truth make more the man         Than royal aim or princely plan.         But sometime man shall rule by thought,             And worth shall gain her just return,             Till all shall every singer spurn         Who in the ancient cycles taught         That heroes rest in royal graves,         But never in the tombs of slaves.