Turning from the land that bore them, from the loving ties of old,
Still to wander, weary pilgrims, o'er the wide world after gold.
Little reck they of the dangers, little reck they of the woes,
Urged along by strong endeavour, heedless both of friends and foes;
Gazing on the shadow moving at their sides till sun hath set,
Ever whisp'ring to their spirit, "Courage! we will grasp it yet!"
Over plain and over mountain, rocks their zeal cannot resist,
Up the rugged heights they clamber till they perish in the mist;
Down the precipital hollows blindly falling as they speed,
Calling still with dying accents on their fellows to take heed;
Over stream, and trackless ocean, with the storm-cloud hatching nigh,
Ever waiting there to thunder at the bidding of the sky;
Tossing on the angry billow, heart and soul beset with fear,
Yet with longing all unshaken, onward through the blast they steer;
Over marsh, and sandy desert, sinking 'neath the scorching sun,
Hopeless, weary, madly thirsting, slowly dying one by one;
Leaving many a bone to whiten by the wayside, and to tell
By mortality's drear tide-marks, how its surges rose and fell;
Through the spring, and through the summer, when the flowers are on the lea;
Through the Autumn when the blossoms fade and wither drearily;