Who, looking backward from his manhood's prime, br Sees not the spectre of his misspent time? br And, through the shade br Of funeral cypress planted thick behind, br Hears no reproachful whisper on the wind br From his loved dead? br br Who bears no trace of passion's evil force? br Who shuns thy sting, O terrible Remorse? br Who does not cast br On the thronged pages of his memory's book, br At times, a sad and half-reluctant look, br Regretful of the past? br br Alas! the evil which we fain would shun br We do, and leave the wished-for good undone br Our strength to-day br Is but to-morrow's weakness, prone to fall; br Poor, blind, unprofitable servants all br Are we alway. br br Yet who, thus looking backward o'er his years, br Feels not his eyelids wet with grateful tears, br If he hath been br Permitted, weak and sinful as he was, br To cheer and aid, in some ennobling cause, br His fellow-men? br br If he hath hidden the outcast, or let in br A ray of sunshine to the cell of sin; br If he hath lent br Strength to the weak, and, in an hour of need, br Over the suffering, mindless of his creed br Or home, hath bent; br br He has not lived in vain, and while he gives br The praise to Him, in whom he moves and lives, br With thankful heart; br He gazes backward, and with hope before, br Knowing that from his works he nevermore br Can henceforth part.