Fierce for the right, he bore his part

The golden time of Long Ago.

When will the dead world cease to dream, When will the morning break?

Though all the bards of earth were dead, And all their music passed away, What Nature wishes should be said She’ll find the rightful voice to say.

White sail upon the ocean verge, Just crimsoned by the setting sun, Thou hast thy port beyond the surge, Thy happy homeward course to run And winged hope, with heart of fire, To gain the bliss of thy desire.

Ambition has but one reward for all: A little power, a little transient fame, A grave to rest in, and a fading name.

His love was like the liberal air,— Embracing all, to cheer and bless; And every grief that mortals share Found pity in his tenderness.