The victories of Right Are born of strife. There were no Day were there no Night, Nor, without dying, Life. - Lewis Morris

Sweet maidenhood! that to a silvery chime
Of music, and chaste fancies undefiled,
And modest grace and mild
Comëst, best gift of God to men.

The wind that sighs before the dawn
Chases the gloom of night,
The curtains of the East are drawn,
And suddenly—'tis light.

Life is a chase,
And man the hunter, always following on,
With hounds of rushing thought or fiery sense,
Some hidden truth or beauty, fleeting still
For ever through the thick-leaved coverts deep
And wind-worn wolds of life.