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Few know of life's beginnings—men behold The goal achieved. The warrior, when his sword Flashes red triumph in the noonday sun; The poet, when his lyre hangs on the palm; The statesman, when the crowd proclaim his voice, And mould opinion on his gifted tongue: They count not life's first steps, and never think Upon the many miserable hours When hope deferred was sickness to the heart. They reckon not the battle and the march, The long privations of a wasted youth: They never see the banner till unfurled, What are to them the solitary nights, Past pale and anxious by the sickly lamp, Till the young poet wins the world at last, To listen to the music long his own? The crowd attend the statesman's fiery mind That makes their destiny; but they do not trace Its struggle, or its long expectancy. Hard are life's early steps; and, but that youth Is buoyant, confident, and strong in hope, Men would behold its threshold, and despair

what different aspects may the same place appear! Walter Maynard arrived in