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 wert 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 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; in the rocks
Labor forever in vain,

Die one by one in the waste.

Then, in such hour of need

Of your fainting, dispirited race,
Ye, like angels, appear,

Radiant with ardor divine.

Beacons of hope, ye appear!

Languor is not in your heart,
Weakness is not in your word,

Weariness not on your brow.

Ye alight in our van; at your voice,

Panic, despair, flee away.

Ye move through the ranks, recall

The stragglers, refresh the outworn,

Praise, reinspire the brave.
Order, courage, return.

Eyes rekindling, and prayers,

Follow your steps as ye go.

Swarded alleys, the limes

Touched with yellow by hot
Summer, but under them still
In September's bright afternoon
Shadow, and verdure, and cool!
Trim Montmartre ! the faint

Murmur of Paris outside;

Crisp everlasting-flowers,

Yellow and black, on the graves.

Half blind, palsied, in pain,

Hither to come, from the streets'

Uproar, surely not loath