THE CROSS.

The cross I bear no man shall know —

No man can ease the cross I bear!—

Alas! the thorny path of woe

Up the steep hill of care!

There is no word to comfort me;

No sign to help my bended head;

Deep night lies over land and sea,

And silence dark and dread.

To strive, it seems, that I was born,

For that which others shall obtain;

The disappointment and the scorn

Alone for me remain.

One half my life is overpast;

The other half I contemplate —

Meseems the past doth but forecast

A darker future state.

Sick to the heart of that which makes

Me hope and struggle and desire,

The aspiration here that aches

With ineffectual fire;

While inwardly I know the lack,

The insufficiency of power,

Each past day's retrospect makes black

Each morrow's coming hour.

Now in my youth would I could die!—

As others love to live,— go down

Into the grave without a sigh,

Oblivious of renown!