The Last Look

My soul, before we altogether quit
This land wherein we once had hoped to dwell.
Take one last look, — yea, take one brief farewell.
There shine the paths that now her spirit's feet
Shall tread alone: since, soul, it was not meet
That thou shouldst walk with her: yet why rebel?
Such things we know must be, and who shall tell
What might have been, had she to save thought fit?

Turn round, my soul, and look upon the sea
That we must cross: " Is not the harvest past,
The summer ended! And we are not saved!"
Strange hands to us across the sea are waved.
Strange voices rise and call tumultuously.
And hell laughs out for joy, and cries, " At last!"