Lewis Morris

The passionate love of Right, the burning hate of Wrong.

Sound, jocund strains; on pipe and viol sound, Young voices sing; Wreathe every door with snow-white garlands round, For lo! 'tis Spring! Winter has passed with its sad funeral train, And hope revives again.

The love of the Right, tho' cast down, the hate of victorious Ill, All are sparks from the central fire of a boundless beneficent will.

The wind that sighs before the dawn Chases the gloom of night, The curtains of the East are drawn, And suddenly—'tis light.

The victories of Right Are born of strife. There were no Day were there no Night, Nor, without dying, Life.

Toil is the law of life and its best fruit.

Sweet maidenhood! that to a silvery chime Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled, And modest grace and mild Comëst, best gift of God to men.

Knowledge is a steep which few may climb, While Duty is a path which all may tread.

[T]he world still needs Its champion as of old, and finds him still.

Life is a chase, And man the hunter, always following on, With hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense, Some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting still For ever through the thick-leaved coverts deep And wind-worn wolds of life.

How far high failure overleaps the bound Of low successes.

Love for Love And Blood for Blood—the simple golden rule Taught by the elder gods.

What power was this—chance, will you say? But chance, what else can it mean Than the hidden Cause of things by human reason unseen?

Call no faith false which e'er has brought Relief to any laden life, Cessation to the pain of thought, Refreshment 'mid the dust of strife.

Rest springs from strife and dissonant chords beget Divinest harmonies.