Faint has thy heart become. For peace thou prayest—
For less to suffer as thy strength grows less.
For, oh, when life has been a stormy wild—
The bitter night too long, the way too far—
The aged pilgrim, ere he lays him down,
Prays for a moment's lulling of the blast—
A little time, to wind his cloak about him,
And smooth his gray hairs decently to die.
Yet, oh, not vain the victories unsung!
Not vain a life of industry to bless.