Ah! Never Shall The Land Forget.

Oh, River! Darkling River! What A Voice Is That Thou Utterest While All Else Is Still-- The Ancient Voice That, Centuries Ago, Sounded Between Thy Hills, While Rome Was Yet A Weedy Solitude By Tiber's Stream!

Ere, In The Northern Gale, The Summer Tresses Of The Trees Are Gone, The Woods Of Autumn, All Around Our Vale, Have Put Their Glory On.

Difficulty Is The Nurse Of Greatness.

The Gentle Race Of Flowers Are Lying In Their Lowly Beds.

Gently - So Have Good Men Taught - Gently, And Without Grief, The Old Shall Glide Into The New; The Eternal Flow Of Things, Like A Bright River Of The Fields Of Heaven, Shall Journey Onward In Perpetual Peace.