  Hail to the new! unto the winner hail! Hail to the rising, not the setting sun! So runs the world: success, however won, Dulleth, the while, his glory who doth fail. Yet, as thou puttest off thy proven mail, Strong soul that didst no issue ever shun, Or at entrenched greed's resentment quail! Hark to the swelling undertone—"Well done!" Unto the canker which thy country's life Yearly doth make flow more and more impure, Thou wouldst, where needed most, have put the knife, And from its root the pest begun to cure. O brave chirurgeon! who shall end the strife It matters not—thy fame remaineth sure. Alfred Henry Peters. |
|
