And the pilgrim must encounter weary hours of toil and pain,
Ere he reach those verdant vallies—ere he grasp the gold beneath;
Ay, the path is long and dreary, and disease, with poisonous breath,
Lurks around, and many a pilgrim finds it but the way to death.
Ay, the path is long and dreary—but thou canst not miss the way,
For, defiant of its dangers, thousands throng it night and day,
Pouring westward, as a river rolleth on in countless waves—
Old and young, alike impatient—all alike Ambition’s slaves—
Pressing, panting, pining, dying—strewing all the way with graves!
Thus, alas! Ambition ever leadeth men through burial plains—