I

At morning, when the march began,
And Hope's strong eagle waved her wing,
Through banks of flowers the pathway ran,
Beneath the silver skies of spring.

We heard the mountain torrents call,
Far up among the peaks of snow;
Our happy laughter rang through all
The peaceful valleys spread below.

Our hearts were glad, our faces gay,
We trod the slopes with careless glee,
And through the hill-gaps, far away,
Hailed the blue splendor of the sea.

We knew no peril, felt no fear,
Nor thought how swift the moments pass:
The sighing pines we did not hear,
Nor our own footsteps on the grass.

But day wears on, and night is near,
Gray banners mingle with the gold,
Our ranks are thin, our faces drear,
The sky is dark, the wind is cold;

We hear the moaning of the waves
Of that great sea to which we tend;
Our thoughts are in the wayside graves,
And on the solemn journey's end.

No more in vain the pine-trees sigh,
Full well their mournful note is known;
No footsteps pass unheeded by,
No more unheeded fall our own.

No more we hear the joyous cries
Reichoed back from vale and hill;
The light has faded from our eyes,
The music of our youth is still.
II

Not all unlearn'd in sorrow's lore,
My spirit, pensive, dwells apart,
And hears and heeds for evermore
The dead leaves rustling in the heart.

Yet kindly fortune gives me grace,
Through good and ill, through toil and pain,
To hold in ever fond embrace
The cherished comrades that remain!

He, dearly prized, whose gracious fame
Is goodness bright, beyond eclipse;
He, tried and true, whose honored name
Is in your hearts as on your lips; —

He shall not, in this royal hour,
Lack words of mine, my faith to prove;
And, though they be not words of power,
They shall be words of constant love.

His the light-hearted, cheery mirth,
The snow-white bloom of blameless days,
Wisdom and grace and manly worth,
An honest mind and simple ways.

His the pure thought, the spirit sweet,
The wild-wood charm of graceful art,
The sadness and the joy that meet
In Nature's own benignant heart.

Him fortune never taught to fawn;
Want never sued to him in vain:
The word is spoken and is gone,
The gentle thought and act remain.

On wings of deeds the soul must mount!
When we are summoned from afar,
Ourselves, and not our words, will count, —
Not what we said, but what we are!

Ah, be it mine, or soon or late,
In that great day, in that bright land,
With him, as now, to take my fate,
Heart answering heart, hand clasped in hand!