And was there not, when his course began,
While clearing the ground for the life he had plann’d,
A time this crowd would have shrunk from the man
Whose image is now enthroned by the land?
Alas, how oft in youth’s chill morn
Their tears alone are the dews that adorn
The natures that wake
To the light of a day beginning to break!
And oft how long, ere the light will burst,
The mists of the valley surround them first!
And oh, how many and many a tomb
Of a dead hope, buried and left in gloom,
Must mark the path of the man whose need
Is taught through failure how to succeed!
And oft how long, ere he knows of this,
Will hard work doom
His heart that in sympathy seeks for bliss
To a life as lone as death in a tomb,
Where sweetness and light
Are all shut out,
Nor a flower nor a bird
Is heeded or heard,
Nor often, if ever, there comes a sight
Of a friend who cares what he cares about,
Or is willing to soil
A finger with even a touch of his toil!
For our race are too ready to turn with a sneer
From arms that are brawny, and hands that smear
While a man is dependent, in need of a friend,
The world is a snob, and shuns its own peer.
When a man is a master, his need at an end,
The world is a sycophant, cringing to cheer.
Cheer on, wise world, but, oh! forget not,
Whatever encouragement each man got
When in gloom and doubt his course began,
But little he heard from the lips of man.