The Cross.

The cross I bear no man shall know— No man can ease the cross I bear!— Alas! the thorny path of woe Up the steep hill of care! There is no word to comfort me; No sign to help my bended head; Deep night lies over land and sea, And silence dark and dread. To strive, it seems, that I was born, For that which others shall obtain; The disappointment and the scorn Alone for me remain. One half my life is overpast; The other half I contemplate— Meseems the past doth but forecast A darker future state. Sick to the heart of that which makes Me hope and struggle and desire, The aspiration here that aches With ineffectual fire; While inwardly I know the lack, The insufficiency of power, Each past day's retrospect makes black Each morrow's coming hour. Now in my youth would I could die!— As others love to live,—go down Into the grave without a sigh, Oblivious of renown!