War Is The Only Game In Which

Whose Lenient Sorrows Find Relief, Whose Joys Are Chastened By Their Grief.

Welcome As The Flowers In May.

The Heart-sick Faintness Of The Hope Delayed!

Where Lives The Man That Has Not Tried How Mirth Can Into Folly Glide, And Folly Into Sin!

Who, Noteless As The Race From Which He Sprung, Saved Others' Names, But Left His Own Unsung.