The young recruit of glory proudly grasps The standard he must only yield with life. The march commences--deep excitement grows To fiery expectation--he forgets, Amidst the hurried interest of the scene, The crown he fights for only can be won Through seas of slaughter and the waste of life. Alas! how few devoted hearts like his Survive their first engagement with the foe. Death strikes the hero to the dust. He falls In honour's mantle, the triumphant cry Of victory on his pallid lip expires! But what are conquests of the bow and spear, And Alexander's victories, compared With the stern warfare which the soul maintains Against the subtle tempter of mankind-- The base corruptions of a sinful world-- An evil conscience and a callous heart? Oh, vanquish these!--and through the gates of death Triumphant pass and win a heavenly crown!--
Oh, that my soul could find a voice to speak; That human language could express the thoughts Which fill the secret chambers of the brain. In vain the lips pour forth harmon
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