No stream from its source

Flows seaward, how lonely soever its course,

But what some land is gladden’d! No star ever rose

And set, without influence somewhere Who knows

What earth needs from earth’s lowest creature?

No life

Can be pure in its purpose and strong in its strife,

And all Life not be purer and stronger thereby!

The spirits of just men made perfect on high –

The army of martyrs who stand by the Throne

And gaze into the Face that makes glorious their own-

Know this, surely, at last! Honest love, honest sorrow,

Honest work for the day, honest hope for the morrow,

Are these worth nothing more than the hand they

make weary, –

The heart they have sadden’d, – the life they leave dreary?

Hush! the sevenfold Heavens to the voice of the Spirit

Echo: “He that o’ercometh shall all things inherit!”

~Lytton, p. 320

The Cloud of Witness

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