  When a hundred years have passed, What shall then be left at last Of us and the deeds we wrought? Shall there be remaining aught Save green graves in churchyards old, Names o’ergrown with moss and mold, From the worn stones half effaced, And from human hearts erased? When a hundred years have fled, Will it matter how we sped In the conflicts of to-day, Which side took we in the fray, If we dared or if we quailed, If we nobly won or failed? It will matter! If, too weak For the right to strike or speak, We in virtue’s cause are dumb, Some soul in far years to come Shall have darker strife with vice, Weakened by our cowardice. Every struggle that we make, Every valiant stand we take In a righteous cause forlorn, Shall give strength to hearts unborn. When a hundred years have gone, Darkness and oblivion Shall our ended lives obscure, But their influence shall endure. Other eyes shall be upraised To the hills on which we gazed, And the paths o’er which we plod Shall by other feet be trod, While our names shall be forgot; Yet, although they know it not, Those who live then, none the less, We shall sadden or shall bless. They shall bear our boon or curse, They shall better be or worse, As we who shall then lie still, Have lived nobly or lived ill. |
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