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?
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