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turn—at last was scaled
 * The summit of his aim,

The cheer went up, his name was hailed
 * With generous acclaim.

But he for whom they raised the shout
 * And wreathed the shining bay

Strove in his soul with new-born doubt,
 * And silent turned away.

Before his vision there arose,
 * Like spectres of the night,

The nameless company of those
 * Who perished in the fight;

The host baptized in blood and tears,
 * Outstripped upon the way,

To whom the gray monotonous years
 * Bring no redeeming day;

The hapless, toiling, tired throng
 * Who sow but never reap,

And through their weary lives one long
 * Unceasing vigil keep.