How strange it seems to lead, who once were led!
To feel the pressure of the quick young race
Following and urging on behind our tread,
Ready and eager to usurp our place,
Crowding us forward,—though no word be said!
’Tis but the natural law which stars obey,
Following in order due through night, through day.
O march which seemed so long and is so brief!
Whether by rough ways led or smooth greensward,
Under clear sun or hovering clouds of grief,