Say not the struggle nought availeth, the labour and the wounds are vain

The enemy faints not, nor faileth, and as things have been, they remain

If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars

It may be, in yon smoke concealed, your comrades chase even 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, come silent, flooding in, the main.

And not by eastern windows only when daylight comes, comes in the light

In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly

But westward, look, the land is bright.