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WESTWARD HO!
- WE should not sit us down and sigh,
- My girl, whose brow a fane appears,
- Whose steadfast eyes look royally
- Backwards and forwards o’er the years—
- The long, long years of conquered time,
- The possible years unwon, that slope
- Before us in the pale sublime
- Of lives that have more faith than hope.
- We dare not sit us down and dream
- Fond dreams, as idle children do:
- My forehead owns too many a seam,
- And tears have worn their channels through
- Your poor thin cheeks, which now I take
- Twixt my two hands, caressing. Dear,
- A little sunshine for my sake!
- Although we’re far on in the year.
- Though all our violets, sweet! are dead,
- The primrose lost from fields we knew,
- Who knows that harvests may be spread
- For reapers brave like me and you?
- Who knows what bright October suns
- May light up distant valleys mild,
- Where as our pathway downward runs
- We see Joy meet us, like a child
- Who, sudden, by the roadside stands,
- To kiss the travellers’ weary brows,
- And lead them through the twilight lands
- Safely unto their Father’s house.
- So, we’ll not dream, nor look back, dear!
- But march right on, content and bold,
- To where our life sets, heavenly clear,
- Westward, behind the hills of gold.
