Can ever from the soul the past erase.
Guard thou thy life, O man, with heavenly grace.
THE ROYAL WAY
Perfection ever is the price of toil.
Of marchings long, and hardships by the way,
Of burdens borne, oft in the heat of day,
'Tis then as right the victor claims the spoil.
The world admires the wreath upon his brow,
But he alone can tell how much it cost,