That man, too, now on the monument resting,—
How long and hard life’s basis to lay,
Strove he, while about him was nothing suggesting
The meed that the present is proud to pay!
When all sailing is over, the shouts of a state
That hail a Columbus may name him great.
Before it is over, that isle of the west,
The goal of his quest,
Is merely, for most, the point of a jest.
Nor a few, the while he turns to his mission,
Will deem him moved by a mean ambition.
Ay, often indeed, the nobler the claims
Inspiring his aims,
The more earth deems
They are selfish schemes
Of a Joseph it hates for having strange dreams.
Alas, where hate
Is a normal state,
Who serves the world with a love that is great
Is rated a foe by those who refuse it,
Nor always a friend by those who use it;
For he, forsooth, he knew of their need
In the day they knew not how to succeed!—
And thus this man in the marble wrought on,
Life’s fruit fell off, and the fall frost froze,
And the winter of life came, weary and wan,
Ere words to welcome his worth arose.
Wise world, the one who is now your boast
Heard few of your cheers, when needing them most:
The pride of his youth in his life or its plan,
It came not then from the praise of man.