There is no record left on earth, And evermore the cruel god Cried "Onward!" and the palm-crown showed, Born for success he seemed, With grace to win, with heart to hold, I see him with superior smile Hunted by Sorrow's grisly train In lands remote, in toil and pain, With angel patience labor on, Which holds to home 'neath every sky, In hearts which round the hearth at home What generous beliefs console The brave whom Fate denies the goal! To Heaven's high will his will is bent. Firm on his heart relied, What lot soe'er betide, He nor repents nor grieves, Pleads for itself the fact, Fell the bolt on the branching oak; Its peace sublime his aspect kept, O'er thy rich dust the endless smile Alike thy memory embalms That orange-grove, that isle of palms, And these loved banks, whose oak-boughs bold Root in the blood of heroes old. |