There thou dost lie, in the gloom 
Of the autumn evening. But ah!
That word, gloom, to my mind 
Brings thee back, in the light 
Of thy radiant vigor, again; 
In the gloom of November we pass’d 
Days not dark at thy side;
Seasons impair’d not the ray 
Of thy buoyant cheerfulness clear. 
Such thou wast! and I stand 
In the autumn evening and think 
Of bygone autumns with thee.

 

Fifteen years have gone round 
Since thou arosest to tread, 
In the summer-morning, the road 
Of death, at a call unforeseen, 
Sudden. For fifteen years,
We who till then in thy shade 
Rested as under the boughs 
Of a mighty oak, have endured 
Sunshine and rain as we might, 
Bare, unshaded, alone,
Lacking the shelter of thee. 

 

 

O strong soul, by what shore 
Tarriest thou now? For that force, 
Surely, has not been left vain! 
Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labor-house vast 
Of being, is practised that strength, 
Zealous, beneficent, firm! 

 

 

 

Yes, in some far-shining sphere, 
Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the word 
Of the Spirit in whom thou dost live— 
Prompt, unwearied, as here! 
Still thou upraisest with zeal 
The humble good from the ground,
Sternly repressest the bad! 
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse 
Those who with half-open eyes 
Tread the border-land dim 
Twixt vice and virtue; reviv’st,
Succorest!—this was thy work; 
This was thy life upon earth. 
 

 

 

What is the course of the life 
Of mortal men on the earth?— 
Most men eddy about
Here and there—eat and drink, 
Chatter and love and hate, 
Gather and squander, are raised 
Aloft, are hurl’d in the dust, 

Striving blindly, achieving
Nothing; and then they die— 
Perish;—and no one asks 
Who or what they have been, 
More than he asks what waves, 
In the moonlit solitudes mild
Of the midmost Ocean, have swell’d, 
Foam’d for a moment, and gone. 
 

 

 

 

 

And there are some, whom a thirst 
Ardent, unquenchable, fires, 
Not with the crowd to be spent,
Not without aim to go round 
In an eddy of purposeless dust, 
Effort unmeaning and vain. 

 

 

 

Ah yes! some of us strive 
Not without action to die
Fruitless, but something to snatch 
From dull oblivion, nor all 
Glut the devouring grave! 

 

 

 

We, we have chosen our path— 
Path to a clear-purposed goal,
Path of advance!—but it leads 
A long, steep journey, through sunk 
Gorges, o’er mountains in snow. 
Cheerful, with friends, we set forth— 
Then on the height, comes the storm.
Thunder crashes from rock 
To rock, the cataracts reply, 
Lightnings dazzle our eyes. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Roaring torrents have breach’d 
The track, the stream-bed descends
In the place where the wayfarer once 
Planted his footstep—the spray 
Boils o’er its borders! aloft 
The unseen snow-beds dislodge 
Their hanging ruin; alas,
Havoc is made in our train! 
Friends who set forth at our side, 
Falter, are lost in the storm. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

We, we only are left! 
With frowning foreheads, with lips
Sternly compress’d, we strain on, 
On—and at nightfall at last 
Come to the end of our way, 
To the lonely inn ’mid the rocks; 
Where the gaunt and taciturn host
Stands on the threshold, the wind 
Shaking his thin white hairs— 
Holds his lantern to scan 
Our storm-beat figures, and asks: 
Whom in our party we bring?
Whom we have left in the snow? 
 

 

 

 

Sadly we answer: We bring 
Only ourselves! we lost 
Sight of the rest in the storm. 
Hardly ourselves we fought through,
Stripp’d, without friends, as we are. 
Friends, companions, and train, 
The avalanche swept from our side. 

 

 

 

 

 
But thou would’st not alone 
Be saved, my father! alone
Conquer and come to thy goal, 
Leaving the rest in the wild. 
We were weary, and we 
Fearful, and we in our march 
Fain to drop down and to die.
Still thou turnedst, and still 
Beckonedst the trembler, and still 
Gavest the weary thy hand. 

 

 

 

 

 
If, in the paths of the world, 
Stones might have wounded thy feet,
Toil or dejection have tried 
Thy spirit, of that we saw 
Nothing—to us thou wast still 
Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! 
Therefore to thee it was given
Many to save with thyself; 
And, at the end of thy day, 
O faithful shepherd! to come, 
Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. 
 

 

 

 

And through thee I believe
In the noble and great who are gone; 
Pure souls honor’d and blest 
By former ages, who else— 
Such, so soulless, so poor, 
Is the race of men whom I see—
Seem’d but a dream of the heart, 
Seem’d but a cry of desire. 

 

 

 

 

Yes! I believe that there lived 
Others like thee in the past, 
Not like the men of the crowd
Who all round me to-day 
Bluster or cringe, and make life 
Hideous, and arid, and vile; 
But souls temper’d with fire, 
Fervent, heroic, and good,
Helpers and friends of mankind. 

 

 

 

 
Servants of God!—or sons 
Shall I not call you? because 
Not as servants ye knew 
Your Father’s innermost mind,
His, who unwillingly sees 
One of his little ones lost— 
Yours is the praise, if mankind 
Hath not as yet in its march 
Fainted, and fallen, and died!
 

 

 

See! In the rocks of the world 
Marches the host of mankind, 
A feeble, wavering line. 
Where are they tending?—A God 
Marshall’d them, gave them their goal.
Ah, but the way is so long! 
Years they have been in the wild! 
Sore thirst plagues them, the rocks, 
Rising all round, overawe; 
Factions divide them, their host
Threatens to break, to dissolve. 

 

 

 

 

 

—Ah, keep, keep them combined! 
Else, of the myriads who fill 
That army, not one shall arrive; 
Sole they shall stray; in the rocks
Stagger for ever in vain. 
Die one by one in the waste. 

 

 

 

 
Then, in such hour of need 
Of your fainting, dispirited race 
Ye, like angels, appear,
Radiant with ardor divine! 
Beacons of hope, ye appear! 
Languor is not in your heart, 
Weakness is not in your word, 
Weariness not on your brow.
Ye alight in our van! at your voice, 
Panic, despair, flee away.