Classic Poem

At the piano—in a day
When I was young and you were younger,
When you were Music's protegé,
And I a budding ballad-monger—
You played a piece replete with frills,
Composed, I think, by S. S. Mills.

You thought to serve the heavenly maid,
And much of skill was in your fingers;
Extremely well, I thought, you played—
The pleasant recollection lingers.
No churchman you. Who could foresee
That one day you would bishop be!

Time turns the leaves of life for all,
Leaf upon leaf, for fools or sages;
You saw, in letters gold, the Call
When you had lived through thirty pages.
How you responded, is set down
Upon the tablets of our town.

You follow, westward still, the star
Of the Lord God's empire. We speed you,
Knowing you cannot fare so far
Your good repute will not precede you.
He marches ever in the van
Who lives to serve his fellow-man.

If over the piano's keys
Your fingers ever “wander idly,”
And wake that “piece” which used to please,
Which long ago was played so widely—
Let memory for a moment dwell
On him who bids you here farewell!