While thus to love he gave his days In loyal worship, scorning praise, How spread their lures for him in vain, Thieving Ambition and paltering Gain! He thought it happier to be dead, To die for Beauty than live for bread.
Whether we climb, whether we plod, Space for one task the scant years lend, To choose some path that leads to God, And keep it to the end.
Bravely to do whate'er the time demands, Whether with pen or sword, and not to flinch, This is the task that fits heroic hands; So are Truth's boundaries widened, inch by inch.
Once this soft turf, this rivulet's sands, Were trampled by a hurrying crowd, And fiery hearts and armed hands Encountered in the battle cloud.
Ah! never shall the land forget How gushed the life-blood of her brave-- Gushed, warm with life and courage yet, Upon the soil they fought to save.
Now all is calm and fresh and still, Alone the chirp of flitting bird, And talks of children on the hill, And bell of wandering kine are heard.
No solemn host goes trailing by The black-mouthed gun and staggering wain; Men start not at the battle-cry; Oh, be it never heard again!
Soon rested those who fought; but thou Who minglest in the harder strife For truths which men receive not now, Thy warfare only ends with life.
A friendless warfare! lingering long Through weary day and weary year; A wild and many-weaponed throng Hang on thy front, and flank, and rear.
Yet nerve thy spirit to the proof. And blench not at thy chosen lot; The timid good may stand aloof, The sage may frown--yet faint thou not.
Nor heed the shaft too surely cast, The foul and hissing bolt of scorn; For with thy side shall dwell at last The victory of endurance born.
Truth, crushed to earth, shall rise again; The eternal years of God are hers; But Error, wounded, writhes in pain, And dies among his worshipers.
Yea, though thou lie upon the dust, When they who helped thee flee in fear, Die full of hope and manly trust, Like those who fell in battle here.
Another hand thy sword shall wield, Another hand the standard wave, Till from the trumpet's mouth is pealed, The blast of triumph o'er thy grave.
Doubting Thomas and loving John, Behind the others walking on:
"Tell me now, John, dare you be One of the minority? To be lonely in your thought, Never visited nor sought, Shunned with secret shrug, to go Through the world esteemed its foe; To be singled out and hissed, Pointed at as one unblessed, Warned against in whispers faint, Lest the children catch a taint; To bear off your titles well,-- Heretic and infidel? If you dare, come now with me, Fearless, confident and free."