A crown for him that winneth, A bed for him that fails, A glory that beginneth In never-dying tales. Yet now the pain is ended And the glad hand grips the sword, Look on thy life amended And deal out due award. Think of the thankless morning, The gifts of noon unused; Think of the eve of scorning, The night of prayer refused. And yet. The life before it, Dost thou remember aught, What terrors shivered o'er it Born from the hell of thought? And this that cometh after: How dost thou live, and dare To meet its empty laughter, To face its friendless care? In fear didst thou desire, At peace dost thou regret, The wasting of the fire, The tangling of the net. Love came and gat fair greeting; Love went; and left no shame. Shall both the twilights meeting The summer sunlight blame? What! cometh love and goeth Like the dark night's empty wind, Because thy folly soweth The harvest of the blind? Hast thou slain love with sorrow? Have thy tears quenched the sun? Nay even yet to-morrow Shall many a deed be done. This twilight sea thou sailest, Has it grown dim and black For that wherein thou failest, And the story of thy lack? Peace then! for thine old grieving Was born of Earth the kind, And the sad tale thou art leaving Earth shall not leave behind. Peace! for that joy abiding Whereon thou layest hold Earth keepeth for a tiding For the day when this is old. Thy soul and life shall perish, And thy name as last night's wind; But Earth the deed shall cherish That thou to-day shalt find. And all thy joy and sorrow So great but yesterday, So light a thing to-morrow, Shall never pass away. Lo! lo! the dawn-blink yonder, The sunrise draweth nigh, And men forget to wonder That they were born to die. Then praise the deed that wendeth Through the daylight and the mirth! The tale that never endeth Whoso may dwell on earth. ALL FOR THE CAUSE Hear a word, a word in season, for the day is drawing nigh, When the Cause shall call upon us, some to live, and some to die! He that dies shall not die lonely, many an one hath gone before; He that lives shall bear no burden heavier than the life they bore. Nothing ancient is their story, e'en but yesterday they bled, Youngest they of earth's beloved, last of all the valiant dead. E'en the tidings we are telling was the tale they had to tell, E'en the hope that our hearts cherish, was the hope for which they fell. In the grave where tyrants thrust them, lies their labour and their pain, But undying from their sorrow springeth up the hope again. Mourn not therefore, nor lament it, that the world outlives their life; Voice and vision yet they give us, making strong our hands for strife. Some had name, and fame, and honour, learn'd they were, and wise and strong; Some were nameless, poor, unlettered, weak in all but grief and wrong. Named and nameless all live in us; one and all they lead us yet Every pain to count for nothing, every sorrow to forget.