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. IV. But the monument knew a different day, When masons with mortar and mallet wrought here The firm and deep foundation to lay. Still few would turn from the well-trod way To climb the mounds of marble and clay Which hid the work; or, if some drew near, They only came with a stare of surprise, Or a shrug or sigh for its form or size. V. 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. VI.