180
Nurtur'd amid the sons of wax He acted there a gallant part,Yet, his were graces lovelier far— The softer virtues of the heart!His was the bosom taught to glow With friendship warm and passion true,And he would sigh for others' woe, Nor less relieve, than pity too.Poor stranger! o'er thy bed of death Strangers with love and pity hung—And watch'd with grief thy parting breath,. And the last faulter of thy tongue.They watch'd thine eye so mild and meek, Where faith and resignation beam'd;And saw when on thy pallid cheek The tear, for youthful follies, gleam'd.And, Stranger, o'er thy narrow bed A pensive stranger drops the tear,And where, unmark'd, thy gentle head Is pillow'd, weeps and wanders near.And they who knew thy early worth, Abbot, shall weep thy mournful doom;And shade thy consecrated earth With the dark marble's sable gloom;To show the distant, humble grave "Where lies the turf on Abbot's breast"—For he, like Erin's sons, was brave— Then honour'd be his bed of rest!
