ONCE a small, childish dancing company,

We ran behind the ranks of older ones

Half seen, half noticed, very proud to be

Part of the grown procession with the drums;

Each manly stride they covered cost us three

Of our small steps,—that was small price to pay

For sharing in the glory of the day.

Where are the ranks that seemed to us so tall,

So full of fire and force and valor brave,

So full of wisest wisdom, knowing all

That man can know, or children dumbly crave

To understand with their weak powers, and small?

It seems a little time since thus we ran,

Yet we, the children then, now lead the van.

The stately forms which towered like forest trees,

The limbs which never tired, (as we supposed!)

The wills which ruled our infant destinies,

The strength beneath whose shadow we reposed,

Authority, love, shelter,—all of these,

’Tis we who are the stalwart leaders now

(Or seem so to the little ones behind),

The tireless marchers whom the gods endow

With the keen vision, the all-judging mind,

The will, which questions not of why or how,

But rules and dominates all lesser fates,

Regardless of their puny loves or hates!

How strange it seems to lead, who once were led!

To feel the pressure of the quick young race

Following and urging on behind our tread,

Ready and eager to usurp our place,

Crowding us forward,—though no word be said!

’Tis but the natural law which stars obey,

Following in order due through night, through day.

O march which seemed so long and is so brief!

Whether by rough ways led or smooth greensward,

Under clear sun or hovering clouds of grief,

What matter, so they end in thee, O Lord!

Who art of mortal toils the full reward?

We will keep on content and fearlessly,

Nor seek for rest until we rest in Thee.