The last sweet autumn, The summer’s lilted reeds; The softened call of winter’s night, The arrows of spring trees– Surely these we ponder lightly When the year begins anew; And oft neglect, a lesson learned Which still demands review. So much have we forgotten! And much that lies at stake! For the stories of our fathers Have become a barren slate: The footsteps of the enemy, The dusty, hateful heat, The distant cry of someone’s child, The echo of defeat– The tattered line, upon which hung The wardrobe in entire; Two pennies pinched in anxious fear Behind a heart’s desire– The crying stab of hunger, The endless prayer for rain, The mournful, gloomy faces come From visiting the slain. Oh, would that we remembered! Oh what indeed we missed! When we moved the ancient mark We were warned not to dismiss! Had we listened, we would know When our foes arise against us, We must cry to God alone And pray His grace be with us. But their books we cast behind us, Precious wisdom of the past– Stacked, untouched, on every shelf And always dusted last. (Prov.