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Here often hast Thou heard the Poet sing
In concord with his River murmuring by;
Or in some silent field, while timid Spring
Is yet uncheered by other minstrelsy.
Who shall inherit Thee when Death has laid
Low in the darksome Cell thine own dear Lord?
That Man will have a trophy, humble Spade!
A trophy nobler than a Conqueror's sword.
If he be One that feels, with skill to part
False praise from true, or greater from the less,
Thee will he welcome to his hand and heart,
Thou monument of peaceful happiness!
With Thee he will not dread a toilsome day,
His powerful Servant, his inspiring Mate.
And, when thou art past service, worn away,
Thee a surviving soul shall consecrate.
His thrift thy uselessness will never scorn;
An Heir-loom in his cottage wilt thou be:—
High will he hang thee up, and will adorn
His rustic chimney with the last of Thee!
