No more we see him climb the western hill
Beneath the maple shade;
The trees he cherished so are waving still,
But whither has he strayed?

The snowy hair that crowned the noble brow —
The smile — the eyes so blue —
The gray, square-folded shawl — Ah! where is now
The Pastor whom we knew?

An exile from the far New England shore,
Here had he chosen to dwell,
And for the task his Master set, gave o'er
The scenes he loved so well.

Our fathers and our grandsires heard his speech
And saw his smile benign;
Full fifty years it was his joy to teach
The Way he held divine.

How often in those stiff, old-fashioned pews
Year in, year out, we heard
His old, old story of the Glorious News,
Or Thunders of the Word!

And many a heart that held no whit of God
For base imaginings,
Before this saintly man with reverence trod
And glimpsed the higher things.

O spirit grandly simple, humbly true,
So loyal, so serene,
Since thou hast passed beyond our mortal view
What service hast thou seen!

For sure that Power that made thee what thou art
And sent thee for our needs,
Will use the mellower mind, the riper heart
For grander, nobler deeds!

O, somewhere, past the bounds of time and place,
Where perfect spirits dwell,
Thou seest now thy Master face to face,
And all with thee is well!