And traders barter our world away;
Yet hearts to that golden promise cleave,
And still, at times, "Is it come?" they say.
The days of the nations bear no trace
Of all the sunshine so far foretold;
The cannon speaks in the teacher's place;
The age is weary with work and gold;
And high hopes wither, and memories wane;
On hearths and altars the fires are dead;
But that brave faith hath not lived in vain;