Let Us Be Merciful As Well As

We Waste Our Best Years In Distilling The Sweetest Flowers Of Life Into Potions Which, After All, Do Not Immortalize, But Only Intoxicate.

The Warriors That Fought For Their Country, And Bled, Have Sunk To Their Rest; The Damp Earth Is Their Bed; No Stone Tells The Place Where Their Ashes Repose, Nor Points Out The Spot From The Graves Of Their Foes. They Died In Their Glory, Surrounded By Fame, And Victory's Loud Trump Their Death Did Proclaim; They Are Dead; But They Live In Each Patriot's Breast, And Their Names Are Engraven On Honor's Bright Crest.

The Atmosphere Breathes Rest And Comfort, And The Many Chambers Seem Full Of Welcomes.

In December Ring Every Day The Chimes; Loud The Gleemen Sing In The Streets Their Merry Rhymes. Let Us By The Fire Ever Higher Sing Them Till The Night Expire!

To-day, To-morrow, Every Day, To Thousands The End Of The World Is Close At Hand. And Why Should We Fear It? We Walk Here, As It Were, In The Crypts Of Life; At Times, From The Great Cathedral Above Us, We Can Hear The Organ And The Chanting Choir; We See The Light Stream Through The Open Door, When Some Friend Goes Up Before Us; And Shall We Fear To Mount The Narrow Staircase Of The Grave That Leads Us Out Of This Uncertain Twilight Into Life Eternal?