Say not the struggle nought availeth. The labour and the wounds are vain. The enemy faints not, nor faileth, And as things have been, things remain...

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liar's;
It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers,
And, but for you, possess the field.

For while the tired waves, vainly breaking,
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back through creeks and inlets making
Came, silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only,
When daylight comes, comes in light,
In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look. the land is bright.