And there are some whom a thirst Ardent, unquenchable, fires, Not with the crowd to be spent, Not without aim to go round In an eddy of purposeless dust, Effort unmeaning and vain. Ah yes! some of us strive Not without action to die Fruitless, but something to snatch From dull oblivion, nor all Glut the devouring grave. We, we have chosen our path,-- Path to a clear-purposed goal, Path of advance; but it leads A long, steep journey, through sunk Gorges, o'er mountains in snow. Cheerful, with friends, we set forth; Then, on the height, comes the storm, Thunder crashes from rock To rock; the cataracts reply; Lightnings dazzle our eyes; Roaring torrents have breached The track; the stream-bed descends In the place where the wayfarer once Planted his footsteps; the spray Boils o'er its borders; aloft, The unseen snow-beds dislodge Their hanging ruin. Alas! Havoc is made in our train! Friends who set forth at our side Falter, are lost in the storm. 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-- 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 believed 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.