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Tell me not, in mournful numbers,
Life is but an an empty dream!
For the soul is dead that slumbers,
And things are not what they seem.
Life is real!life is earnest!
And the grave is not it"s goal:
Dust thou art, to dust returnest,
Was not spoken of the soul.
Not enjoyment,and not sorrow,
Is our destined end or way:
But to act that each tomorrow
Find us farther than today.
Art is long, time is fleeting,
And our hearts,though stout and brave,
Still,like muffled drums,are beating
Funeral marches to the grave.
In the world"s broad field of battle,
In the bivouac of life ,
Be not like dumb, driven cattle!
Be a Hero in the strife!
Trust no future, however pleasant!
Let the dead past bury it"s dead!
Act act in the living present,
Heart within and god over head!
Lives of great men all remind us
We can make our lives sublime,
And departing, leave behind us
Footprints on the sands of time;
Footprints, that perhaps another,
Sailing over life"s solemn main,
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother
Seeing,shall take heart again.
Let us then be up and doing,
Within a heart for any fate;
Still achieving, still pursuing,
Learn to labour and to wait.