Well-paid, the press of trampling cares! the pains
That bore the embodied joy! the home-stretch sobs!
The doers passed: their best of deed remains,
And still through many a mightier artery
To feed a larger life their life-blood throbs.
II.
But those, whose useless breath was mixed with groans?
Weak flesh, sick spirits, poor dumb dog-like eyes
That could not read the star-signs in the skies,
Now closed forever, sealed beneath their stones!