1 Say not, The struggle nought availeth, The labour and the wounds are vain, The enemy faints not nor faileth, And as things have been they remain. 2 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. 3 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. 4 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.