’Tis strange how often early years
Will unexpected rise,
And bring back soft and childlike tears
To cold and world-worn eyes.
Soft voices come upon the wind,
Old songs and early prayers,
And feel how much of good and kind
Our weary life still spares.
Or had he lofty thoughts and stern,
Of what before him lay;
Did his aspiring thoughts discern
Honours some future day,
Of science, aided by his toil—
Of knowledge, taught to roam—
Of all the rich and varied spoil
The traveller brings home?
He needed all—the hopes that guide—
The memories that cheer—
For after hours were at his side,
Of care, and pain, and fear.
His was a hard and weary lot,
His hour of wandering past;
Alas! for him awaited not
A welcome home at last.
Strange hands sustained his sinking head,
Strange steps were at his side,
Strange faces bent above the bed,
The bed whereon he died.
I cannot bear to think of this—
Death-lone on that far strange shore;
And yet the death-bed that was his
Awaiteth many more.
Our careless crowds too little think
Of those who work their will;
Of dangers from which we should shrink—
Of toils, while we are still.
Too late some vain regret may wake,
And pity then affords
For some young bold adventurer’s sake,
A few vain tears and words.
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