  HAVE you balked at the test you’ve been put to, Are you weary of straining a point? Is the fight too hard, the way too long? Is there too much of sighing, too little of song? Does ev’ry thing seem to be going wrong? The scheme entire, as it were, out of joint? Then lend me an ear whilst I counsel awhile, You must take a fresh grip, my friend, The game is yours if you’ll make it your own, Defeat is a word that need never be known. He who sticks in his mount, cannot be thrown, Let his steed strive its best to that end. The sun goes down with the gloom of each night, But it rises again with each morn, And there’s so much of brightness to be gathered in, Such wonderful happiness ours to win, Throw despair to the winds, and anew begin, Standing forth—the Mortal re-born! |
|
