In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright.

Grace is given of god, but knowledge is bought in the market.

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars.

Whither depart the souls of the brave that die in the battle, Die in the lost, lost fight, for the cause that perishes with them?

And almost everyone when age, disease, or sorrows strike him, inclines to think there is a God, or something very like him.

It fortifies my soul to know That, though I perish, Truth is so: That, howsoe'er I stray and range, Whate'er I do, Thou dost not change. I steadier step when I recall That, if I slip Thou dost not fall.

In front, the sun climbs slow, how slowly, but westward, look, the land is bright.