Too much rest is rust

Sound, sound the clarion, fill the fife! To all the sensual world proclaim, One crowded hour of glorious life Is worth an age without a name.

Come as the winds come, when Forests are rended, Come as the waves come, when Navies are stranded.

Where lives the man that has not tried, How mirth can into folly glide, And folly into sin!

War's a fearsome thing. They'll be cunning that catches me at this wark again.

But mankind—the race would perish did they cease to aid each other.—From the time that the mother binds the child's head, till the moment that some kind assistant wipes the death-damp from the brow of the dying, we cannot exist without …

Time will rust the sharpest sword, Time will consume the strongest cord; That which molders hemp and steel, Mortal arm and nerve must feel.