Classic Poem

" TOO young " do they call him? Who say it? Not they
Who have felt his hard stroke in the civic affray,
When elders, whom veteran fighters had taught
Till they knew all the rules by which battles are fought,
Fumbled weakly with weapons his foresight had sought.

Who thinks of his youthfulness? Surely not they
Who stood at his side through the wavering day,
And knew the quick vision, the planning exact
Of parry and thrust, till the stout helmet cracked
'Neath the bold and true blow that is better than tact.

Yea, the strength of the arm is the strength of its use,
Not its years; and when fighting is on, better choose
Not the rust-eaten sword from the library wall,
But the new blade that leaps in its sheath at the call
Ask the foe by which weapon he fears most to fall!