There is no friend like the old friend who has shared our morning days, No greeting like his welcome, no homage like his praise; Fame is the scentless sunflower, with gaudy crown of gold; But friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.
These are the hands whose sturdy labor brings The peasant's food, the golden pomp of kings; This is the page whose letters shall be seen, Changed by the sun to words of living green; This is the scholar whose immortal pen Spells the first lesson hunger taught to men; These are the lines that heaven-commanded Toil Shows on his deed, - the charter of the soil!
I think it not improbable that man, like the grub that prepares a chamber for the winged thing it never has seen but is to be . . . may have cosmic destinies that he does not understand. And so beyond the vision of battling races and an impoverished earth, I catch a dreaming glimpse of peace.
Ay, tear her tattered ensign down! Long has it waved on high, And many an eye has danced to see That banner in the sky. Beneath it rung the battle shout, And burst the cannon's roar- The meteor of the ocean air Shall sweep the clouds no more.