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—No, brother of sorrow, when life's light is weakest,

Look up, it is nigh the redemption thou seekest.

Still WORK, though the tramp of the weird spirit-horses,

Fall dull on the ear, like the clay upon corses;

Still Freedom must send forth her young heroes glowing,

Though her standard be red with their life-current flowing;

Still the preacher must cast forth the seed, as God's sower

Though he perish like grass at the scythe of the mower.

Still do the Lord's work through life's tragical drama,

Though weeping goes upward like weeping at Rama;

The path may be thorny, but Spirit eyes see us;

The cross may be heavy, but Death will soon free us:

Still, strong in Christ's power we'll chant the Hosanna,

Fling down Christ's defiance—[Greek: Upage Satana]!

I see in a vision the shadowy portal,

That leadeth to regions of glory immortal;

I see the pale forms from the seven wounds bleeding,

Which up to God's Throne the bright angels are leading;

I see the crown placed on each saint bending lowly,