To death or vict’ry go.
Nor fly they from the noontide heat,
To Pleasure’s shaded bowers;
Firm fall the feet that trod, erewhile,
Among the dew-bright flowers.
To battle with Life’s ills they go—
Those hopeful hearts and strong—
Nor shrink they from the toilsome march,
To struggle fierce and long.
These lessons trite they all have conned: