Sonnet Ci. Our Early Friends. Poem by Henry Alford

One, and another--pass they, and are gone,
Our early friends. Like minute--bells of heaven,
Across our path in fitful wailings driven,
Hear we death's tidings ever and anon.
A little longer, and we stand alone:
A few more strokes of the Almighty rod,
And the dread presence of the voice of God
About our footsteps shall be heard and known.
Toil on, toil on, thou weary, weary arm:
Hope ever onward, heavy--laden heart:
Let the false charmer ne'er so wisely charm,
Listen we not, but ply our task apart,
Cheering each hour of work with thoughts of rest,
And with their love, who laboured and are blest.