He stood amidst the crowd,
With his visage wan and old,
With a trumpet-voice and loud he thus his story told.
Ye miners all,
Ye weak and strong,
Who to these rivers swiftly throng,
Gast down your tools and fly amain,
To those at home who cry in vain.
Give up the search,
Turn back,
I say,
And ye will bless that happy day.
Three mortal years I've roamed,
Yet look,
Can she read me like a book?
I'm strapped without assent.
Let's pause,
My grief has found its vent.
On the hills,
By the plains,
They lie,
Prostate and ill,
They seek to die.
Little they wreck or care for life,
To combat in a useless strife.
Hope deferred indeed,
My friends,
My wife to me a letter sends.
We,
Trustful,
Hoped for happier days,
But who on earth can read God's ways?
No more to me,
To girls is fair,
As the angels are with golden hair.
They me blessed,
A soothing balm,
That o'er my bosom shed a calm.
I dreamed a spirit stood nigh me,
A glorious light around its brow.
Softly a voice said,
Come to me,
Where the living waters flow.
Thus spoke that care-worn man,
With voice so loud and clear.
The evening breeze his cheeks did fan,
The minors all did shake with fear.
Strangely sat fear upon their hearts,
Conscious loud smote in their breasts,
Guilt on their faces as each one starts,
At that old man's behests.
They pressed around,
Besought his stay,
In vain his thoughts were far away.
Why steps lie on the mountain-top,
I cannot rest,
I cannot stop.
They watched him up the steep ascent,
And wondered whither he went.
News came,
Beneath a stunted tree,
A dead man lay,
The soul was free.
