And as we meet thy brow’s clear calm,
There falls a freshening sense of balm
Upon our spirits. Fear—distrust—
The hopeless present on us thrust—
We’ll front them as we can, and must.
Then courage, brothers! Tho’ our breast
Ache with that rankling thorn, despair,
That failure plants so sharply there—
No pang, no pain shall be confessed;