If hopes were dupes, fears may be liars;
    It may be, in yon smoke concealed,
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.

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.