Hurry No Man's Cattle; You

In The Lost Battle, Borne Down By The Flying, Where Mingles War's Rattle With Groans Of The Dying.

Well, Then--our Course Is Chosen--spread The Sail-- Heave Oft The Lead, And Mark The Soundings Well-- Look To The Helm, Good Master--many A Shoal Marks This Stern Coast, And Rocks, Where Sits The Siren Who, Like Ambition, Lures Men To Their Ruin.

Tears Are The Softening Showers Which Cause The Seed Of Heaven To Spring Up In The Human Heart.

"charge, Chester, Charge! On, Stanley, On!" Were The Last Words Of Marmion.

Look At A Gown Of Gold, And You Will At Least Get A Sleeve Of It.