We, we only are left! With frowning foreheads, with lips Sternly compressed, we strain on, On; and at nightfall at last Come to the end of our way, To the lonely inn ’mid the rocks; Where the gaunt and taciturn host Stands on the threshold, the wind Shaking his thin white hairs, Holds his lantern to scan Our storm-beat figures, and asks,-- Whom in our party we bring? Whom we have left in the snow? Sadly we answer, We bring Only ourselves! we lost Sight of the rest in the storm. Hardly ourselves we fought through, Stripped, without friends, as we are. Friends, companions, and train, The avalanche swept from our side. But thou wouldst not _alone_ Be saved, my father! _alone_ Conquer and come to thy goal, Leaving the rest in the wild. We were weary, and we Fearful, and we in our march Fain to drop down and to die. Still thou turnedst, and still Beckonedst the trembler, and still Gavest the weary thy hand. If, in the paths of the world, Stones might have wounded thy feet, Toil or dejection have tried Thy spirit, of that we saw Nothing: to us thou wast still Cheerful, and helpful, and firm! Therefore to thee it was given Many to save with thyself; And, at the end of thy day, O faithful shepherd! to come, Bringing thy sheep in thy hand. And through thee I believe In the noble and great who are gone; Pure souls honored and blest By former ages, who else else-- Such, so soulless, so poor, Is the race of men whom I see-- Seemed but a dream of the heart, Seemed but a cry of desire. Yes! I believe that there lived Others like thee in the past, Not like the men of the crowd Who all round me to-day Bluster or cringe, and make life Hideous and arid and vile; But souls tempered with fire, Fervent, heroic, and good, Helpers and friends of mankind. Servants of God!--or sons Shall I not call you? because Not as servants ye knew Your Father’s innermost mind, His who unwillingly sees One of his little ones lost,-- Yours is the praise, if mankind Hath not as yet in its march Fainted and fallen and died. See! In the rocks of the world Marches the host of mankind, A feeble, wavering line. Where are they tending? A God Marshalled them, gave them their goal. Ah, but the way is so long! Years they have been in the wild: Sore thirst plagues them; the rocks, Rising all round, overawe; Factions divide them; their host Threatens to break, to dissolve. Ah! keep, keep them combined! Else, of the myriads who fill That army, not one shall arrive; Sole they shall stray; on the rocks Batter forever in vain, Die one by one in the waste.