Poems (Stephens)/Our heroes

by Eliza Jane Stephens

OUR HEROES.

We sometimes say the world has selfish grown—
 That mortals are of meaner mold
Than were the heroes and the martyrs, all,
 Who blessed the wondrous days of old.

Or else their story only was a myth,
 Contrived by some ideal mind,
So prone are we to doubt a worth exists,
 That we have sought in vain to find.

But now our cavils evermore are hushed,
 Our doubts to rest forever laid;
And by the world, as 'twere one grateful heart,
 A well-deserved tribute's paid.

For none more generous were than Periton,
 Who loved his life, but dared to brave
The awful water's madly raging flood
 His fellow creatures' lives to save.

While yet all mindful of his peril stern,
 Was rushing onward to his death,
Nor paused once, in all his faithful work,
 "A warning cry his latest breath."

And saintly Crossett, who for love of souls
 Relinquished all the joys of home,
And toiling, suffering, but still hoping on,
 Was glad in heathen lands to roam,

If work of his could only bring true peace
 To some poor sinner's troubled breast,
Ah, he was great, his labors still are known,
 Though he has passed to promised rest.

And Damien, happy owner well possessed
 Of every grace of form and mind,
A gift of love to all our erring race,
 A hope to suffering human kind.

The outcast, and the leper stricken ones
 Were objects of his tenderest care.
The sick, the poor, the friendless and forlorn,
 Found him a friend, their griefs to share.

We'll call these heroes, rightfully they're named,
 No lives were purer, more sublime,
No sacrifice of self was more complete,
 A blessed memory's their's through time.