The Brave

IT is not the desert lonely,Nor at the mast-head o'er the wave,Nor with the climbing fire ascendingImperiled life to save,Nor on the battlefield, that onlyAre found the brave!

Ah, no! Unmarked, pain's passion-flowers,Through nights intolerably deep,They bind in silence; mutely praying—Enduring, not to keepTheir watchers wearying through the hours—But let them sleep.

Through all the winter chill, ere morning,O'er many a frozen trail, I wis,Fighting their course, that waiting childrenLife's nurture may not miss—Against the blast they journey, scorningAs bitter kiss.

From light-towers sending forth at evenNew hope, in place of old despair,Toiling in mines, in factories toiling—But, ah! why seek, why careTo name them o'er? The brave, thank Heaven!Are everywhere!