Alive, by Victor Hugo
Those who live, are those who strive, those whose
Soul, possessed of a firm design, whose mind
Envisioning a great destiny and a demanding climb,
Walk pensive, engrossed by a goal sublime.
Those whose eyes' unswerving, focus on
A saintly labor, or higher love, and soldier on,
Like the pious prophet, prostrate before the arch,
Commited to the toil, and onward march.
Those whose heart is good, whose days are full,
Are the ones that truly live, by God! The others I pity.
For their vague worries yield but a void unforgiving,
and the greatest burden: to exist, without living.
*Translated by Scott Powell. This short poem was written by Victor Hugo in French, and is entitled "Le Gout de la Lutte," which like most expressions in a foreign language has no ready equivalent in English. "The Taste for the Struggle" might be the best near-literal translation. Having no training in poetry, I don't claim to have produced anything beautiful in my translation, although I'm pretty happy with the result. Hopefully, some of the soul of the original has been retained.
No Enemies, by Charles MacKay
You have no enemies, you say?
Alas, my friend, the boast is poor;
He who has mingled in the fray
Of duty, that the brave endure,
Must have made foes! If you have none,
Small is the work that you have done.
You've hit no traitor on the hip,
You've dashed no cup from perjured lip,
You've never turned the wrong to right,
You've been a coward in the fight.