Mankind — The Race Would Perish Did

We Often Praise The Evening Clouds, And Tints So Gay And Bold, But Seldom Think Upon Our God, Who Tinged These Clouds With Gold.

The Way Was Long, The Wind Was Cold, The Minstrel Was Infirm And Old; His Withered Cheek, And Tresses Gray, Seemed To Have Know A Better Day.

Contentions Fierce, Ardent, And Dire, Spring From No Petty Cause.

Who, Noteless As The Race From Which He Sprung, Saved Others' Names, But Left His Own Unsung.

What Can They See In The Longest Kingly Line In Europe, Save That It Runs Back To A Successful Soldier?