l the past crowds down to lay its treasures
at your feet. Patriotism stands once more in the breach at
Thermopylae,--bears down the serried hosts of Bannockburn,--lays its
calm hand in the fire, still, as if it felt the pressure of a mother's
lips,--gathers to its heart the points of opposing spears, to make a
way for the avenging feet behind. All that the ages have of greatness
and glory your hand may pluck, and every year adds to the purple
vintage. Every year comes laden with the riches of the lives that were
lavished on it. Every year brings to you softness and sweetness and
strength. Every year evokes order from confusion, till all things find
scope and adjustment. Every year sweeps a broader circle for your
horizon, grooves a deeper channel for your experience. Through sun and
shade and shower you ripen to a large and liberal life.

Yours is the deep joy, the unspoken fervor, the sacred fury of the
fight. Yours is the power to redress wrong, to defend the weak, to
succor the needy, to relieve the suffering, to confound the oppressor.
While vigor leaps in great tidal pulses along your veins, you stand in
the thickest of the fray, and broadsword and battle-axe come crashing
down through helmet and visor. When force has spent itself; you
withdraw from the field, your weapons pass into younger hands, you rest
under your laurels, and your works do follow you. Your badges are the
scars of your honorable wounds. Your life finds its vindication in the
deeds which you have wrought. The possible tomorrow has become the
secure yesterday. Above the tumult and the turbulence, above the
struggle and the doubt, you sit in the serene evening, awaiting your
promotion.

Come, then, O dreaded years! Your brows are awful, but not with
frowns. I hear your resonant tramp far off, but it is sweet as the
May-maidens' song. In your grave prophetic eyes I read a golden
promise. I know that you bear in your bosom the fullness of my life.
Veiled monarchs of the future, shining dim and beautiful, you shall
become my vassals, swift-footed to bear my messages, swift-handed to
work my will. Nourished by the nectar which you will pour in passing
from your crystal cups, Death shall have no dominion over me, but I
shall go on from strength to strength and from glory to glory.

End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Gala-days, by Gail Hamilton

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