And the grave is not its goal; Dust thou art, to dust returnest, Was not
spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, Is our destined end or way; But to act,
that each to-morrow Find us farther than to-day.
Art is long, and Time is fleeting, And our hearts, though stout and
brave, Still, like muffled drums, are beating Fneral marches to the grave.
In the world's broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of Life, Be not like dumb, driven cattlt!
Be a hero in the strife! Thrust no future,howe'er pleasant!
Let the dead Past bury its dead! Act-act in the living Present! Heart
within, and God o'erhead!
Lives of great men all remind us We can make our lives sublime, And ,
departing , leave behind us Footprints on the sands of time; Footprints that
perhaps another, Sailing o'er life's solemn main, A forlorn and shipwrecked
brother, Seeing, shall take heart again.
Let us , then, be up and doing, With a heart for any face; Still
achieving, still pursuing, Learn to labour and to wait.