The long, long night of Storm and Strife is past;
Alike the grasses spring o'er friend and foe;
And thou, brave heart, whose voice outrode the blast—
Whose kindling thought made every beacon glow—
O friend, who would'st my future work forecast
Pointing this idle pen to higher things—
In these poor songs to thee I still cling fast;
I read, and lo, thy clarion voice still rings
And in mine own refrain, it is thy thought that sings.