I hold it truth, with him who sings To one clear harp in divers tones, That men may rise on stepping-stones Of their dead selves to higher things.

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?

All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

O last regret, regret can die!

Strong Son of God, immortal Love, Whom we, that have not seen thy face, By faith, and faith alone, embrace, Believing where we cannot prove.

A day may sink or save a realm.

Do we indeed desire the dead Should still be near us at our side ? Is there no baseness we would hide ? No inner vileness that we dread ? How many a father have I seen A sober man, among his boys Whose youth was full of foolish noise.