 | Collected poems |  |
579
AN EPITAPH (FOR A PARISH MAGAZINE)
“On n'y lit aucun nom.”
—V. Hugo.
Here sleeps, at last, in narrow bed,
A man of whom, whate'er is spoken,
This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.
A man of whom, whate'er is spoken,
This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.
He boasted no high-sounding name,
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And—more than once—forgave his debtors.
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And—more than once—forgave his debtors.
He never joined the cry of those
Who prate about the Public Morals;
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.
Who prate about the Public Morals;
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.
It never came within his plan
To “demonstrate” on Want or Labour;
He strove to serve his fellow-man,
And did his best to love his neighbour.
To “demonstrate” on Want or Labour;
He strove to serve his fellow-man,
And did his best to love his neighbour.
580
When Doubt disturbed his honest soul,
He found in this his consolation:—
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.
He found in this his consolation:—
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.
And this, at least, he felt was sure:—
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.
So, all unpraised, he ran his race;
But we, who watched his life, and knew it,
Thus mark his nameless resting place,
Because he died too poor to do it.
But we, who watched his life, and knew it,
Thus mark his nameless resting place,
Because he died too poor to do it.
1908.
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