Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

O Love! what hours were thine and mine, In lands of palm and southern pine; In lands of palm, of orange-blossom, Of olive, aloe, and maize and vine!

Tis a morning pure and sweet, And a dewy splendour falls On the little flower that clings To the turrets and the walls; 'Tis a morning pure and sweet, And the light and shadow fleet; She is walking in the meadow, And the woodland echo rings; In a moment we shall meet; She is singing in the meadow, And the rivulet at her feet Ripples on in light and shadow To the ballad that she sings.

Cast all your cares on God; that anchor holds.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

Oh good gray head which all men knew!