Classic Poem

A WAY to the battle of life, my boy,
While yet it is called to-day,
For the years go out and the years come in,
Regardless of all who may lose or win,
Of all who may work or play.

And the troops march steadily on, my boy,
To the myriads gone before;
You can hear the sound of their falling feet,
Going down to the river where two world's meet —
They go to return no more.

There is room for you in the ranks, my boy,
And duty to you assigned:
Step into the front with a cheerful grace —
Be quick, or another may take your place,
And you shall be left behind.

There is work for you by the way, my boy,
That you never can do again;
Work for the lowliest, loftiest men,
With shuttle and spindle, ploughshare and pen;
Work for the hand and the brain.

The serpent will follow you close, my boy,
To lay for your feet a snare,
And Pleasure will sit in her fairy bowers,
With crimson poppies and lotus flowers
Enwreathing her golden hair.

But, oh! beware of her wiles, my boy,
Beware of her Upas breath;
She has learned the lore of deception well;
But her steps take hold on the gates of hell —
The kiss of her lips is death.

Then put on the armor of God, my boy,
In the beautiful days of youth;
Put on the helmet, the breastplate and shield,
And the sword that the feeblest arm may wield,
In the cause of right and truth.

And go to the battle of Life, my boy,
With the peace of the Gospel shod,
And before high Heaven do the best you can
For the great reward, for the good of man,
For the crown and kingdom of God.