No man can die, till all his work is done:
But who shall say, what work he had to do?-
With some, the journey was but just begun,
With some, the fight would seem not half fought through,
And others drop just ere the goal is won,
And everywhere the winners are too few,
And general failure is the general lot,-
Why say then - Work undone, Man dieth not?-

- Natheless, immortal till his tasks are o'er,
Is every one of us upon this earth:
But who hath guess'd his tasks, or learnt their lore,
Till death had seal'd the secrets of his birth?
The failures we so selfishly deplore
May stand in Providence our sterling worth,
The causes wherefore we have lived and died,
Contentment and religion shaming pride!

For, as in choice mosaic, creature-life
Is like a tesselated pavement shown,
In the Great Temple with God's glory rife
Wherein are fixed His footstool and His throne;
And there all lights and shades, the peace the strife
The good and evil, paint His praise alone,-
And every phase of character is there,
In every coloured morsel, dark or fair!

Rest well-assured, Creation serves Him well,
Even the wicked, though they mean not so:
And those who fought and stood, or fought and fell,
Wrought for His triumph, whether friend or foe:
All work true work, though hard it be to tell
How good is bred of ill, or bliss of woe;
Yet somehow, somewhere, and at some far when,
God shall delight in all the sons of men!

So, faint not thou; go gladly on thy way,
And press straight on, though there be little light;
Help all things good, whilst it is called to-day,
And do thy duteous best with all thy might:
Then, be thy nearing future what it may
Thou shalt be blest therein by day and night,
Blest in the faith for all thy work well done
Wherever in thy course the goal be won!