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(THE HEARSE OF HANDS.)
Slowly the Teacher wends his way
Through the paths of a summer day;
'Mid the balm of the June's sweet breath,
Into the campus owned by Death.
Through the paths of a summer day;
'Mid the balm of the June's sweet breath,
Into the campus owned by Death.
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Silence there in the gateway stands,
Ready to clasp his faded hands;
Mounds of grasses and headstones dim
Long have waited to welcome him.
Ready to clasp his faded hands;
Mounds of grasses and headstones dim
Long have waited to welcome him.
He will not knock at a stranger's door:
Teachers and preachers have gone before.
Bugle-voices the lands have heard,
Welcome him with no welcome-word.
Teachers and preachers have gone before.
Bugle-voices the lands have heard,
Welcome him with no welcome-word.
Not in a hearse, with plumes of black,
Gliding along the well-worn track,
Comes this moulder of brain and will,
Now so newly and strangely still:
Gliding along the well-worn track,
Comes this moulder of brain and will,
Now so newly and strangely still:
Not in a lofty funeral-car,
Borne to rest, as the warriors are:
Not with an empty-saddled horse,
Rides to its rest this hero-corse.
Borne to rest, as the warriors are:
Not with an empty-saddled horse,
Rides to its rest this hero-corse.
Eight strong students, with measured tread,
Silently bear the silent dead;
Eight more students with loving face,
Ever are waiting the honored place.
Silently bear the silent dead;
Eight more students with loving face,
Ever are waiting the honored place.
Thus do the minds this master taught
Garland his road with tender thought;
Thus does each student, loving much,
Wait for the thrill of his casket's touch.
Garland his road with tender thought;
Thus does each student, loving much,
Wait for the thrill of his casket's touch.
Thus by the ones he has served and blessed,
Slowly the Teacher is borne to rest:
Grander honor could never be
Paid to the kings of land or sea.
Slowly the Teacher is borne to rest:
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Paid to the kings of land or sea.
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