To J. R. M.
I walked within the silent city of the dead,
Which then with Autumn leaves was carpeted,
And where the faded flower and withered wreath
Bespoke the love for those who slept beneath,
And, weeping, stood beside a new-made grave
Which held the sacred dust that friendship gave.
That heart with milk of human kindness overflowed—
That sympathetic hand its generous aid bestowed
To lighten others’ burdens on life’s weary road!
And there no polished shaft need lift its head
In lettered eulogy above the sainted dead—
His deeds are monuments above the dust whereon we tread!
When from its fragile tenement of clay
To fairer realms his spirit winged its way,
With poignant grief we stood around the bier
Which held the lifeless form of one held dear,
And broken hearts that knew no comfort then
Still mourn the loss of one of Nature’s noblemen!