Adversity is like the period of the rain. . . cold, comfortless, unfriendly to people and to animals; yet from that season have their birth the flower, the fruit, the date, the rose and the pomegranate.

Time rolls his ceaseless course.

Stood for his country's glory fast, And nailed her colors to the mast!

But with morning cool repentance came.

Breathes there the man with soul so dead, Who never to himself hath said, This is my own, my native land.

Steady of heart and stout of hand.

The heart-sick faintness of the hope delayed!