Say not the struggle nought availeth,
The labour and the wounds are vain,
The enemy faints not nor faileth,
And as things have been, things remain;


If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
It may be, in yon smoke conceal'd,
Your comrades chase e'en now the fliers--
And, but for you, possess the field.


For while the tired waves vainly breaking
Seem here no painful inch to gain,
Far back, through creeks and inlets making,
Comes silent, flooding in, the main.


13And not by eastern windows only,
14When daylight comes, comes in the light,
15In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
16But westward, look! the land is bright.