iAMiPB^nmi 
 
''-^>-^-_^.p 
 
 
 COnrRIGHT DEPOSm 
 
©tamat 
 
 Anil ©tlier Vnat^a 
 
 BY 
 
 FRANK PRENTICE RAND 
 
 Collected for the perusal of his friends and to satisfy 
 a whim of the author 
 
 1917 
 
<^\^ 
 
 ^^w 
 
 Copyright, 1917 
 Frank Prentice Rand 
 
 The K1NG8BUHY PRINT 
 NORTHAMPTON, M»«8 
 
 OCT II 1917 
 ©CU476541 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 Tiamat 7 
 
 Standards 14 
 
 Johnny's Millennium 15 
 
 "By the Waters of Babylon" 18 
 
 Tommy and Fritz 21 
 
 After? 23 
 
 Pro Patria 25 
 
 Good-bye 26 
 
 The Singing Leaves 28 
 
 Morning and Evening 29 
 
 Departure 30 
 
My Country 
 
 Beloved and Beautiful 
 
 Distracted 
 
 Fraught with Prejudice and Pain 
 
 Young in Strength and Dreams 
 
 Destined to lead the World 
 
 to Brotherhood 
 
 and Peace 
 
Tiamat* 
 
 I am weary of words and dreams, and wearily weak 
 
 at heart, 
 Stupidly sick of science and all but distrustful of 
 
 art; 
 And my spirit is low like the wind, and my faith is 
 
 o'ercast like the west; 
 My limbs are crying for sleep and my soul is yearning 
 
 for rest; 
 Ay, but there is no sleep, neither rest for the soul, 
 
 in life, 
 With the world a turbulent scene of a deadly and 
 
 desperate strife. 
 
 Can ye hear it, tumultuous war, brawling in blood 
 
 o'er the earth, 
 Sucking its slimy tusks in a passion akin to mirth, 
 Reeking with odious sweat, grimy with carnage and 
 
 dust, 
 Burning and killing and raping in the frenzy of 
 
 fiendish lust? 
 What a hideous monster it is! No pen hath the 
 
 power to tell 
 Of its ugly and sinister face, a visage incarnate 
 
 of hell. 
 
 *The Assyrian god of chaos and wickedness: perhaps a fitting name for 
 militarism. These verses describe an attitude of mind not uncommon 
 among Americans a few months ago. 
 
I said, "I will flee from its path; I will take myself 
 
 out of its way. 
 Perhaps it will pass and begone like a western tornado 
 
 at play". 
 So I fled, but it followed me fast; and I hid, but it 
 
 hunted me out; 
 And I scorned it, and laughed in fear; but it mocked 
 
 me with sneer and shout; 
 Then I looked at the tail of the thing, which lashed 
 
 and stunk and curled, 
 And I knew the ghastly truth, that its path was the 
 
 whole wide world. 
 
 I parried for time to think, and I talked at the fiend 
 
 from my soul ; 
 I uttered its horrible name, and defied its demonic 
 
 control ; 
 I bade it begone like a cur, and I turned on my 
 
 heel as though free, 
 But I felt its loathsome leer, and it would not let 
 
 me be; 
 And it hissed like a thousand snakes, and its breath 
 
 was hot with spite. 
 Till it snarled a jeer at last, and the words "too 
 
 proud to fight". 
 
 Then I threw back the lie to its teeth, and I stripped 
 
 off my shirt in a flash; 
 I grabbed up a bludgeon of oak, and my muscles 
 
 were keen for the clash; 
 And then, — ah then I grew faint with a sudden and 
 
 sickening shame, 
 
And I staggered away in the brush Hke a poor, 
 
 palsied creature of game; 
 'Twas the look in its eye that repelled me, a look 
 
 of unspeakable glee, 
 For it said in obscene exultation, "Strike once and 
 
 be straightway like me". 
 
 Is it gone? Is it waiting out there? I am sure in 
 
 my heart it is near. 
 For the leaves are withering still as though they 
 
 were stricken with fear. 
 And my legs have grown weak as with age, and my 
 
 spirit is panting in pain; 
 And oh for a breath of the wind or a dash of the 
 
 cooling rain! 
 Can it be it is gone after all? Ah, that were too 
 
 good to be true. 
 Did I conquer by simply refusing? I would that 
 
 I knew. 
 
 I am glad that I met it squarely, I am glad that 
 I looked in its face; 
 
 It burned me to look, but I saw^ it, and the years 
 will never erase 
 
 From my poor, troubled brain that visage, a visage 
 so hideously bad 
 
 That I knew why millions who feel it become de- 
 liriously mad. 
 
 It was not the gore that besmeared it, for that could 
 do naught but disgust; 
 
 'Twas the treacherous soul behind it, — the spirit of 
 human lust. 
 
 9 
 
I had thought the arch -demon a stranger, but slowly 
 the consciousness grew 
 
 That somehow the beast was familiar and only its 
 form was new. 
 
 Upright it had walked in our cities, like a man in 
 both speech and attire, 
 
 Bearing the deadliest magic, which lures men to 
 vicious desire. 
 
 Bribing their hearts with power, with prominence, 
 pleasure and pelf, 
 
 Making them blind with the baubles of the glori- 
 fication of self. 
 
 This highly respectable devil, so subtle and smug 
 and secure, 
 
 Has builded a stronghold palatial on the burden- 
 some toil of the poor. 
 
 Wielding a power despotic through falsehood and 
 cunning and vice, 
 
 Acclaimed by the men "successful", by the women, 
 "very nice". 
 
 When sober it fooled the world by peacefully keeping 
 the law ; 
 
 But now, when crazed and drunk, it revealeth its 
 soul in war. 
 
 But now I am weary with thinking, and my heart 
 
 is as heavy as lead 
 At the vision of nations in madness with the master 
 
 of lust at their head, 
 Swaggering on to destruction, blasting the buds with 
 
 their breath, 
 
 10 
 
Glutting a ghoulish frenzy, stenching the fields 
 
 with death : 
 There are widows and orphans in mourning; their 
 
 plaints are poignant and sad ; 
 But who is to weep for the nations, for a world 
 
 demonically mad? 
 
 I would weep if I could, but I cannot; my soul craveth 
 
 nothing but rest; 
 It is vain for the helpless to struggle; surely to 
 
 slumber is best. 
 The centuries bring new methods but the same old 
 
 pleasure and pain ; 
 They store up the dreams of the sages, but all of 
 
 their years are in vain. 
 For the lust that controlled the caveman is lord 
 
 and master yet, 
 And hope is a fond delusion, and now I would fain 
 
 forget. 
 
 I had said that the race is better, that the lust is 
 
 becoming more weak, 
 But truly I was mistaken, and the greatest of fools 
 
 to speak; 
 And they laugh at me now, the scoffers, although 
 
 they agreed with me then. 
 Oh how can a drunken demon bedevil a nation of 
 
 men? 
 Is there something to do? I know not. It seemeth 
 
 at last to be right 
 To crawl away in the shadows and pray for the 
 
 coming of night. 
 
 11 
 
Ah, but there is no night, but the blackness of base 
 
 defeat, 
 With the fiend at large to glut o'er everything dear 
 
 and sweet; 
 A man could not go to his grave with such desolation 
 
 behind; 
 He never could lie at rest for the moans of despair 
 
 on the wind. 
 The earth is not safe for sleep, not even the sleep 
 
 of death. 
 Awake ye, my soul, and arise; defy till thy dying 
 
 breath. 
 
 Oh woe to the morarchs in lust, those men without 
 
 pity or shame, 
 Who nurtured the fiend for a tool, to gain for them 
 
 power and fame! 
 Believing the nations would quail, they loosed it 
 
 on water and land, 
 And hoped to impose their will while keeping the 
 
 monster in hand. 
 Woe upon woe to such men! For them are the 
 
 eons of years 
 To suffer the anguish of soul of millions of mothers 
 
 in tears. 
 
 But from them there is little to fear. 'Tis the lust 
 
 which is greater than they. 
 They fed it and thought they were masters, but now 
 
 they are truly its prey. 
 With my ear to the earth I can hear it — the trampling 
 
 of myriad feet, 
 
 12 
 
The curses, the groans, the explosions, the violent 
 
 horror complete; 
 And my eyes fairly ache with the vision of the vile 
 
 and detestable maw 
 Which vomits the mess to reswallow, — the dull, 
 
 drunken spirit of war. 
 
 There is work for a world of men, yea even for me 
 
 with the rest; 
 But I still feel the look in its eye, and I wonder 
 
 what way is the best: 
 Shall I seek to destroy it by force, — a way which I 
 
 greatly abhor? 
 And then, if I conquer at last, can I shake oflf the 
 
 passion of war? 
 Shall I stoutly refuse to engage? Can it be that 
 
 its vitals rely 
 On battle and struggle for life? If I starve it in 
 
 scorn, will it die? 
 
 I am weary and weak and distraught, a pitiful pigmy 
 
 of dust. 
 With something divine in my soul, and a dangerous 
 
 portion of lust. 
 When the dragon ferrets me out, shall I strike it, 
 
 or shall I refrain? 
 I fear it no more, — the monster, — but how can I 
 
 plague it with pain? 
 Where shall I crawl to now? What shall I seek 
 
 to do? 
 I am sick of this waiting and silence. I would that 
 
 I knew. 
 
 13 
 
Standards 
 
 It isn't what you do, lad, 
 
 So much as what you are. 
 The boy who keeps him true, lad, 
 
 Is manlier by far 
 Than he who kicks the goal, lad. 
 
 And wins the football game: 
 For a generous, stainless soul, lad. 
 
 Is more than skill and fame. 
 
 It isn't what you do, lad. 
 
 So much as what you are. 
 The laurel wreaths are few, lad. 
 
 That do not hide a scar. 
 And when with youth and health, lad, 
 
 Our proudest projects end, 
 We offer name and wealth, lad, 
 
 For one warm-hearted friend. 
 
 These are the days of fate, lad : 
 
 These wondrous days for choice 
 Of dream and deed and mate, lad. 
 
 So choose; but heed the Voice 
 That whispers from the blue, lad, 
 
 Beyond the farthest star, — 
 It isn't what you do, lad, 
 
 So much as what you are. 
 
 14 
 
Johnny's Millennium 
 
 My brother Henry's got a gun; 
 
 He's goin' off to Washington, 
 
 Er somewhere; so's my cousin Dan. 
 
 Gee, I'd like to be a man. 
 
 All marchin' round ist big an' grand, 
 
 An' Henry right behind the band; 
 
 While people cheer an' bawl an' say 
 
 That they are heroes anyway. 
 
 An' Pa, he says that he wud go, 
 Right oflf, if 'twasn't for his toe 
 What's corny; an' that he'd ist like 
 To charge the foe an' make 'em hike 
 For cover; then he says that we 
 Have been too patient; an' says he, 
 "When folks insult ye, then it's right 
 To pitch right in an' have a fight". 
 
 An' Ma, why Ma she chimes in too 
 An' says what war's the thing to do. 
 An' me? Well I don't say a thing, 
 Not then, but I ist want to sing 
 An' shout, coz now she'll never dare 
 To cuss me out an' jerk my hair 
 For fightin' roosters; an' I'll bet 
 My Rock will lick Tom's Leghorn yet. 
 
 15 
 
1st yesterday Jim Smith an* me, 
 We got to fightin', coz, you see, 
 Well, Jim he said my hair was red, 
 An' I, — don't 'member what I said; 
 But anyhow we had it out 
 An' I gave Jim a bloody snout, 
 An' he, — well Jim was awful tough, 
 But I ist made him yell "Enough". 
 
 Then I come home, an', well I guess 
 Ma thought I'd kinder made a mess 
 Of clothes an' things; an' she called Pa, 
 An' he, he said he'd lick the tar 
 Clean outer me; an' started in; 
 But I ist hollered out like sin, 
 "You said 'twas right to fight"; an' he, 
 He sorter grinned an' let me be. 
 
 If only I was growed up tall, 
 I'd have the biggest gun of all. 
 An' longest sword; an' I wud shoot 
 More men than Hen, with Dan to boot. 
 I wudn't try to keep me neat. 
 Nor wash my ears; an' I wud eat 
 Ist cake an' candy. Hully gee! 
 The fighter's is the life for me. 
 
 16 
 
The world's improvin', don't you see? 
 1st comin' round to 'gree with me. 
 Why I've been knowin' right along 
 That Ma an' all them guys was wrong 
 What said that fightin' ain't no fun 
 An' never oughten'd to be done: 
 Why even the preacher says it's right, 
 An' prays for them what goes to fight. 
 
 I'd like to meet a pacifist, 
 
 What don't believe in fightin'; ist 
 
 Stands up an' keeps forgivin'; Gee! 
 
 I'd trim his fizz up properly. 
 
 I'd kick his shins; I'd punch him too; 
 
 I'd swat his snoozle black an' blue. 
 
 Hurrah for fightin'! My, it's great. 
 
 I'm glad I wasn't born too late. 
 
 17 
 
•*By the Waters of Babylon" 
 
 1 heard him humming it, about his kit, 
 
 A tune that comes to me from other days, 
 
 From days that seem so strangely far away. 
 
 So dreamy and unreal, I have to stop 
 
 And shake myself to know they passed at all. 
 
 The tune was churchly too, an old refrain. 
 
 And fraught somehow with strong and ancient faith ; 
 
 The tenor used to sing it now and then. 
 
 While I would sit and listen, half asleep, 
 
 Not stirred, I fear; but with a sense of calm. 
 
 How odd they seem, those Sunday mornings, now! 
 
 The townsfolk, all so neat, precise and grave, 
 
 So very worldly too ; the antique pews, 
 
 The faded carpet, everything austere; 
 
 And then the minister in sober black, 
 
 Lifting his voice as though for vital things. 
 
 And somehow missing fire ; devoutly long 
 
 In exegesis, dull with culls and chaff; 
 
 His favorite theme was freedom of the will ; 
 
 I seem to hear him yet; those painful silks 
 
 Behind me, scented, I can hear them too. 
 
 I doubt not that the parson knew his books ; 
 
 I wonder if he knew his God, — or mine. 
 
 And now this war! I did not volunteer 
 
 Because of any great and holy cause, 
 
 Though I presume the cause is good enough ; 
 
 I came because I had to, — some strange will. 
 
 And not my own, that drew me smiling on; 
 
 The lure of things beyond, that makes the men 
 
 Climb gladly from the trenches, out and on, 
 
 18 
 
To force an issue with those deadly guns; 
 A quest for life; I could not help but come. 
 And now? Well now I cannot help but stay, 
 And it is well. If I am doomed to die 
 To-day, next w^eek, next year, 'tis all the same; 
 I hope 'twill be a bullet in the brain. 
 No slashing bayonet thrust, no tearing shell. 
 But what I meant is this; that he w^as wrong. 
 That parson with his freedom of the will. 
 There is no choice. A man does as he must. 
 At least I'm sure that thus it is with me. 
 You see that corner there? 'Twill stink by noon 
 In case the sun is warm. I might be there. 
 But fate, it seems, has something else in store. 
 A dirty job it was. There was a time 
 I could not think of seeing such a sight. 
 Much less of taking part, of having said 
 The ghastly thing should come to pass at all. 
 It was a paltry gain, but still it gave 
 Us work to do, and battered up the foe. 
 It was like cleaning out a nest of rats 
 In boyhood days; and somehow^ after all 
 A man and rat are very much the same. 
 That tune again! The tenor liked it too. 
 We said there could not be another war; 
 The parson proved the point a score of times. 
 And I thought just the same, for warfare seemed 
 A thing unreal ; and now the same with peace. 
 I sometimes long to go back home again 
 To see the folks and town and all, and then 
 It somehow seems a long and weary way. 
 What should I do to make the hours pass 
 
 19 
 
In such a place as that? They wear you out 
 
 With silly yarns and talk about the crops. 
 
 And city life at bottom is the same. 
 
 The world is not the world of yesterday, 
 
 But somehow cramped and warped. I fear my work 
 
 Would seem too dull for words, a tired tale 
 
 Too oft repeated. I cannot comprehend. 
 
 That fellow there, so vile with hair and grime, 
 
 He prays for peace ; but he has home and kids 
 
 And stuff like that ; perhaps that makes the odds. 
 
 But still I rather think that all in all 
 
 A bullet in the brain is best. 'Tis strange. 
 
 I fear the day will be too long, and warm. 
 
 No work to do; I wish that it were night. 
 
 I had a game of chess ; we let it stand 
 
 To finish later. The moves are in my mind. 
 
 There was some fighting to the south at dawn. 
 
 If Paul comes back, I think that I shall win. 
 
 20 
 
Tommy and Fritz 
 
 I wasn't 'alf wantin' to kill 'im, 
 
 And yet there *e was; 
 Still I paused with my 'and on the trigger, 
 
 Because, — well because. 
 
 And it seems that 'e 'adn't no bullets 
 
 Or something 'ad balked ; 
 And 'e knew a good smatter of English, 
 
 So, somehow, we talked. 
 
 'E 'adn't no 'eart to be fightin', 
 
 The bloomin' old 'Un; 
 And I found 'e 'ad only a notion 
 
 Of what 'ad been done. 
 
 'E thought that 'is land was invaded. 
 
 Now wasn't 'e dense? 
 'E actually thought 'e was wagin' 
 
 A war of defense. 
 
 But 'e wouldn't believe what I told 'im; 
 
 Just wouldn't, you know. 
 Allow that 'is people were liars 
 
 And trust in a foe. 
 
 Then 'e told me 'is side of the story; 
 
 And then, though I knew 
 That *w yarn was wild, I just wondered 
 
 If mine was all true. 
 
 21 
 
Well I towed 'im to camp as a capture; 
 
 I 'ad to do that; 
 Though 'e wasn't 'alf bad as a fellow, — 
 
 Just blind as a bat. 
 
 And sometimes at night in the trenches, 
 
 Perplexed and alone, 
 I think of the 'Un in 'is blindness, — 
 
 And me in mv own. 
 
 22 
 
After? 
 
 One was a lover of Browning, 
 The other of Velvet Joe, 
 
 And they talked with casual pauses 
 In the brazier's dingy glow. 
 
 The man with the pipe was yawning 
 And squinting down his gun ; 
 
 "What will ye do," he queried, 
 "After the war is done?" 
 
 His comrade answered tersely, 
 
 And said, "I shall take my pen 
 
 And write of this frightful conflict 
 For the sake of future men. 
 
 "I shall tell of deeds of valor 
 
 Which all men long to know; 
 But mostly I shall deal with 
 The baseness of the foe. 
 
 "I shall show the vicious purpose 
 
 Which prompted them to fight, 
 Their lust for blood and conquest, 
 Their scorn of truth and right. 
 
 "I shall show their fiendish frenzy. 
 Their disregard for law, 
 Their vile and hellish treatment 
 Of prisoners of war. 
 
 23 
 
"I shall show the savage methods 
 In which the vandals trust; 
 I shall fill men's hearts with loathing, 
 With infinite disgust. 
 
 "For we shall surely crush them 
 And pull their talons, — yet 
 It is not safe or fitting 
 
 The world should e'er forget. 
 
 "This is the sacred duty 
 
 I owe to God and men ; 
 And what shall you be doing 
 When justice reigns again?" 
 
 The other puffed a moment 
 And gazed into his cob ; 
 "I'm going home," he answered, 
 "And find a decent job". 
 
 24 
 
Pro Patria 
 
 Not in the passion of anger, 
 
 Not in the blindness of hate, 
 
 Not in a thirst for adventure 
 
 With spirits and hearts elate, 
 
 To the grimmest task of the ages 
 Our lives we dedicate. 
 
 But the way of the war is desperate, 
 
 And the work of the warriors must be 
 
 To sack and destroy and slaughter 
 With a stern ferocity ; 
 
 Their art is the art of destruction. 
 And its background is misery. 
 
 And so as they throng to the colors, 
 These boys with the stride of men, 
 
 I honor their hearts of courage. 
 
 And I cheer them on, — and then 
 
 I ponder alone in the silence 
 
 On those who come back again. 
 
 Will they stand the test of battle 
 
 And come through scarred but true, 
 
 With their old ideals unsullied, 
 
 And their skies of faith still blue? 
 
 Ah, young recruits in khaki, 
 
 God speed, — and it's up to you. 
 
 25 
 
Good-bye 
 
 A few dead leaves on the mountain oak, 
 And a weary wind ! 
 
 Dear Heart, I understand. 
 For, though in trivial talk you seek 
 To hide your love-lit loyalty, 
 The light hair blown across your cheek, 
 The wistful beauty of your face, 
 And every poise of girlish grace, 
 
 Reveal your call to me. 
 
 Yet, as I watch your hand 
 Point to yon eagle soaring high, 
 And long to take it in my own, 
 There comes from out the sunset sky 
 The call of wayward, world-worn men, — 
 Yea, even now Dear Heart, again, — 
 
 And I must go, alone. 
 
 We loved the west wind well ; 
 And oft have climbed this rock-bare crest 
 With faces sun-lit from the west. 
 To greet our faithful, fleet-free friend. 
 And now he bids me linger still, 
 To dwell with maiden, wind and hill 
 
 Till fevered fancies end. 
 
 Dear Heart, how sweet the spell! 
 My trembling lips would seal the dream 
 And pledge our lives to wood and stream, 
 Did not that clear call haunt me yet ; 
 
 26 
 
But you must stay, and I must go ; 
 And still the western wind will blow, 
 Lest ever we forget. 
 
 Look, Love — the evening star! 
 And we might wander on and on 
 With buoyant step from dusk till dawn 
 With that bright mystic star above, 
 Avoid the frantic mid-day strife, 
 And journey hand in hand through life 
 
 In pilgrimage of love. 
 
 Ay, but we look too far ; 
 For see, — a twinkle by the pond, 
 Another, and still more beyond ; 
 And myriads, Dear, beyond our ken. 
 Shine on fair star, but my lone way 
 Leads to the glamor of the day. 
 
 Back to the streets of men. 
 
 Dearest of Hearts, good-bye. 
 How often we have parted, you and I, 
 As comrades of the morning wave adieu 
 And think how sweetly welcome will repay! 
 It was not thus, — to feel your eyes of blue 
 Stare blankly into mine, and turn away. 
 
 No word! No tear! No sigh! 
 And now. Brave Heart, good-bye. 
 
 A few dead leaves on the mountain oak, 
 And a weary wind! 
 
 27 
 
The Singing Leaves 
 
 I am roving to-day with the singing leaves 
 And the wind that bids them sing : 
 
 They tag my heels in a merry chase, 
 
 And seek the brook for a fitful race, 
 
 And eddy and soar with an airy grace, 
 Each borne by a fairy wing. 
 
 I am seeking my strength from the singing leaves 
 And the wind that bids them sing: 
 
 For they lull the weary mind to rest, 
 
 Until it wakes with a keener zest 
 
 To trail the truth to the ultimate test 
 Of human reckoning. 
 
 I am baring my heart to the singing leaves 
 
 And the wind that bids them sing: 
 
 I dream of the lure of the Hidden Way, 
 
 And I hear the call of the active day, — 
 
 A love like prayer and a work like play 
 
 In the peace and the joy they bring. 
 
 I am taking my hope from the singing leaves 
 And the wind that bids them sing: 
 
 They carol of yester years to me, 
 
 They tell of the years that are yet to be, 
 
 They charge me shape my destiny 
 And be ready to greet the spring. 
 
 28 
 
Morning and Evening 
 
 The breath of spring is in the fields, 
 
 The moonhght sheds its dreamy grace; 
 In modest happiness she yields, 
 
 And nestles in his strong embrace. 
 Their eyes one precious vow repeat. 
 
 Too sacred for the mortal tongue ; 
 Their soft lips touch in tribute sweet, 
 
 When love is young. 
 
 The wild winds sweep the drifted snow. 
 
 The leafless branches toss and sigh, 
 And, sitting in the hearth's warm glow, 
 
 The lovers watch the embers die. 
 Glad memories bring kind release 
 
 From trials and worries manifold ; 
 Their silver heads are crowned with peace 
 
 When love is old. 
 
 20 
 
Departure 
 
 One last, slow walk along the village street, 
 One last, long night upon a restless bed, 
 
 One last, poor struggle with a tousled sheet, 
 A weary gasp, and lo my friend is dead. 
 
 Ah, where is now the warm clasp of his hand? 
 
 And where the lustre of his shining eye? 
 Beside the death-bed I who loved him stand 
 
 And blindly wonder what it means to die. 
 
 Above the distant hills the evening star 
 Is like a beacon on a shoreless sea; 
 
 The path it faintly lights leads straight and far. 
 But where within that silent realm is he? 
 
 Alone he went upon his mystic way, 
 
 Without a comrade sought the vast unknown ; 
 He even cast aside his case of clay; 
 
 The spirit stripped for flight and went alone. 
 
 But did he venture forth in trembling fear? 
 
 Ah, strangely no. It rather seemed to me 
 He gladly left the life he once held dear 
 
 To test the mettle of the Yet-to-be. 
 
 30 
 
mmuf^.^l.P'' CONGRESS