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Difficulty, my brethren, is the nurse of greatness - a harsh nurse, who roughly rocks her foster children into strength and athletic proportion.

William C. Bryant

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William C. Bryant
Children
Harsh
Nurse
Proportion
Adversity
Difficulty
Roughly
Greatness
Foster
Rocks
Brethren
Strength
Athletic

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There is a day of sunny rest For every dark and troubled night And grief may hide an evening guest, But joy shall come with early light.
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So they, who climb to wealth, forget The friends in darker fortunes tried. I copied them--but I regret That I should ape the ways of pride.
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And suns grow meek, and the meek suns grow brief, and the year smiles as it draws near its death.
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Glorious are the woods in their latest gold and crimson.
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The gentle race of flowers Are lying in their lowly beds.
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The hushed winds their Sabbath keep.
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There is a Power whose care Teaches thy way.
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Truth crushed to earth shall rise again,- The eternal years of God are hers But Error, wounded, writhes with pain, And dies among his worshippers.
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Where are the flowers, the fair young flowers, that lately sprang and stood In brighter light and softer airs, a beauteous sisterhood?
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Virtue cannot dwell with slaves, nor reign O'er those who cower to take a tyrant's yoke.
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Adversity is the nurse of greatness which roughly rocks her patients back to health.
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Maidens hearts are always soft: Would that men's were truer!
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Or, bide thou where the poppy blows With windflowers fail and fair.
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War, like all other situations of danger and of change, calls forth the exertion of admirable intellectual qualities and great virtues, and it is only by dwelling on these, and keeping out of sight the sufferings and sorrows, and all the crimes and evils that follow in its train, that it has its glory in the eyes of men.
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Beautiful isles! beneath the sunset skies tall, silver-shafted palm-trees rise, between full orange-trees that shade the living colonade.
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On rolls the stream with a perpetual sigh The rocks moan wildly as it passes by Hyssop and wormwood border all the strand, And not a flower adorns the dreary land.
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The sweet calm sunshine of October, now Warms the low spot upon its grassy mold The pur0ple oak-leaf falls the birchen bough drops its bright spoil like arrow-heads of gold.
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Look on this beautiful world, and read the truth in her fair page.
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Lay down the axe fling by the spade Leave in its track the toiling plough The rifle and the bayonet-blade For arms like yours were fitter now And let the hands that ply the pen Quit the light task, and learn to wield The horseman's crooked brand, and rein The charger on the battle-field.
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And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief.
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