The Mighty Rain Holds The

Lay Down The Axe; Fling By The Spade; Leave In Its Track The Toiling Plough; The Rifle And The Bayonet-blade For Arms Like Yours Were Fitter Now; And Let The Hands That Ply The Pen Quit The Light Task, And Learn To Wield The Horseman's Crooked Brand, And Rein The Charger On The Battle-field.

Much Has Seen Said Of The Wisdom Of Old Age. Old Age Is Wise, I Grant, For Itself, But Not Wise For The Community. It Is Wise In Declining New Enterprises, For It Has Not The Power Nor The Time To Execute Them; Wise In Shrinking From Difficulty, For It Has Not The Strength To Overcome It; Wise In Avoiding Danger, For It Lacks The Faculty Of Ready And Swift Action, By Which Dangers Are Parried And Converted Into Advantages. But This Is Not Wisdom For Mankind At Large, By Whom New Enterprises Must Be Undertaken, Dangers Met, And Difficulties Surmounted.

And The Blue Gentian-flower, That, In The Breeze, Nods Lonely, Of Her Beauteous Race The Last.

Do Not The Bright June Roses Blow To Meet Thy Kiss At Morning Hours?

All That Tread, The Globe Are But A Handful To The Tribes, That Slumber In Its Bosom.