Classic Poem

The fountain babbles on the hill,
The wind among the leaves is sighing
But he is silent, low, and still,
Beyond this life of toilsome trying.

Fair is the rest he found at length
Where Nature prints with silent press,
Where oak trees tell his rugged strength
And blossoms speak his kindliness.

His love of right, his love for men,
Shed round his name true holiness;
Though kingly with his flashing pen,
He wore the garb of lowliness.

His own great monument he wrought:—
The broken fetters of the slave,
The championship of highest thought
The words he spake, the gifts he gave,

And gratitude from high and low
His memory will ever grace;
His grand memorial shall grow
With the uplifting of the race.

So Death brings honors to the brave,
And Time, at last, is just and true;
The grass is worn about his grave
By pilgrims whom he never knew.

His spirit lives and speaks again,
And it shall live in endless youth;
Long as the million hearts of men
Shall welcome all the words of truth!

Sleep, silent dust, in safety sleep,
Peacefully rest, secure and still,
Here where the breezes softly sweep,
And waters murmur on the hill.