Along the road the travellers go,
A motley cavalcade;
At midnight, 'midst fast-falling snow,
The march awhile is stayed.
And great and small, and one and all,
Hot youth and lagging age,
They gather waiting round the stone
Which marks another stage.
The journey’s done, the stage is run,
The guide must say farewell.
(Hark! down the wind the travellers deem
They hear a passing-bell.)
A stage behind, when wailed the wind
Across a snowy wold,
They halted, and they halt this night,
Upon a midnight cold,
Till this same guide, who stands beside
The stone, now midnight's near,
Came, muffled — none his face could see,
And none his voice could hear.
If he were glad, if he were sad,
Not one of them could know;
But ever as he went along
His veil he lifted slow.
If he were sad, if he were glad,
If he brought good or ill,
They did not know; but, day by day,
He told his tale; and still,
Some called it sad, some said 'twas glad —
So wondrous was the tale.
Each saw him as none other saw,
Who looked behind his veil.
The stage is run, the tale is done,
The guide must say farewell;
And on the wind there comes the sound,
As of a passing-bell.
Now he must go; the winds wail low
Across the snowy wold;
He takes each traveller by the hand —
His hand is very cold.
Of one and all, both great and small,
How loth soe'er they be,
Whatever’s false of all they have,
He claims it for his fee.
They plead in vain, for, loth or fain,
They thus his fee must pay;
But nothing that was truly theirs
The guide can take away.
And when he goes none ever knows;
Their grasp is strong and warm —
They think they hold him still — but he
Is whirling down the storm.
Ere they can say, "Farewell for aye!"
Far down the storm he's gone.
The new guide stands with muffled face
Beside the halting-stone.
At midnight thus the cavalcade
Is halted on the plain.
When midnight's past, to meet the morn
The march sets forth again.