Who flattered himself he had no one to thank,
And earned—though received not—the name of a crank;
And other old worthies, and unworthies, too,
Whose sorrows and joys will forever be new.
If these and their motives we struggled to reach,
And studied their natures, as well as their speech,
If we went through those mines of thought silver and gold,
That seldom run barren and never grow old,
Took what we could carry, and held to it fast,
Then a good growing time, was our march through the past!