"T is done; 't was well: and now depart, Ye band of brothers true : There's not a virtue of the heart But dwells with each of you. 'Tis yours to stay the sinking soul, And yours, when tears of sorrow roll, And he who here is lain so low He was a man; and 't was enough. And none were near to him allied: He came from o'er the sea: When friendless thus, by the roadside Too poor to pay, with Want he strove; You soothed his vain alarms: Too weak to walk, with Truth and Love, You bore him in your arms. By turns you bathed his brow so pale, Oh home! oh home!— that heartfelt word- Until, by some strong passion stirred, "Through scorching roads of choking dust I've come, a weary way; I come to beg a crumb or crust; 66 No food I've had to day.' These saddening words he slowly said; His voice and air were bland; Uncovered was his noble head; A staff was in his hand. "Now rest thee there:' then to the spring, With hurried step, I flew, And thence the dripping wave did bring, "And food I brought for him the best- Which he partook with hungry zest; “He seemed a gentlemanly man; His clothes, though plain, were neat; And o'er his comely face there ran Expressions sad but sweet. "Come hither now, my pretty maid, "God's blessings on thy gentle head, "If all on earth were like to you, And from their store would give, With hand as free and heart as true, 'T were pleasure then to live. "My darling little girl at home! And when at length to her I come, "She is too poor to spread a feast, "For e'en a cold, dry crust of bread, "Now fare thee well! I must away:' "But I did watch him as he went, Supported by his stick; His gait was slow and slightly bent; 'T was plain he still was sick. "The village church, I well may say, Was half a mile or more, Adown the road which wound its way Apast our cottage door. |