Tho' the mortar of life may grind them.
They were like swimmers breasting the waves
In the troughs of a stormy channel,
They are silent now in their lonely graves,
But the world has become the panel.
They wore the truth like a bridal dress
And sorrow like wedding apparel,
Tho' the placid laughed at their foolishness
And the cynic sneered from his barrel.
Or like the wandering Ishmaelites,