  Proudly the glad ships breast the buoyant wave, Touched by the radiant fingers of the sun, Exulting in the promise of dawn, and brave Over the deep their unknown race to run, From nothingness that none remembereth On to the undiscovered haven of death. Out of the impenetrable night they drew, Mist-curtained, moving darkly through the haze; And the East brightened and the breezes blew, And o'er life's widening waters now they gaze, Greet the companions of their voyage, and know Some dim awakening purpose in them grow. Lightly they sail beneath unclouded skies, Effortless gliding on their easy way, Till the winds gather and the wild floods rise, And tempests frown upon the forehead of day, And they that fared together lonelier drift, Sundered by driving storms and tides that shift. Quenched are the beacon lights that brightly burned, Distant the guiding voices that were near; The frolic temper of the prime is turned To weariness, and faith is dimmed with fear: What if one battle against the beating waves, Who knows if he shall win the haven he craves? Where lies the haven, or if there be in sooth Some haven of peace for them that wrestle and fight— Who shall be bold to take his trust for truth, The gleams he follows for the world's one light, When to his fellows' eyes as naught they seem, Or but false phantoms of a fading dream? This way or that on waves that rise and fall— Falling and rising aimlessly they drive— Haply some flash of light, some far-off call Wakes them a little while to struggle and strive Onward with hope, until it fades again, And leaves them drifting on the dreary main. Blindly the many drift, and drifting dream,— Dream idle dreams, or waking scarce descry Aught but the froth and foam and fitful gleam Of clashing cataracts as they thunder by: They feel some short-lived passion in them glow, Or wondering watch the bubbles come and go. And here is one undauntedly that steers— Or there another—steadfast through the surge, Through storm and darkness. What is that which cheers His spirit in danger? what beyond the verge Of vision leads him on his perilous path? Sure naught but God's own truth such following hath. Faint the gleams flicker through the earthborn cloud; Trust thou and follow where they seem to lead; Soon will thy sight be clearer, and the shroud Of night be shrivelled, and the day succeed: Light may be stained or hidden, yet 'tis light; Trust thou and follow—'tis not of the night. |
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