‘NONE WILL MISS THEE.’

Few will miss thee, Friend, when thou For a month in dust hast lain. Skilful hand, and anxious brow, Tongue of wisdom, busy brain— All thou wert shall be forgot, And thy place shall know thee not. Shadows from the bending trees O’er thy lowly head may pass, Sighs from every wandering breeze Stir the long, thick, churchyard grass— Wilt thou heed them? No: thy sleep Shall be dreamless, calm, and deep. Some sweet bird may sit and sing On the marble of thy tomb, Soon to flit on joyous wing From that place of death and gloom, On some bough to warble clear; But these songs thou shalt not hear. Some kind voice may sing thy praise, Passing near thy place of rest, Fondly talk of ‘other days’— But no throb within thy breast Shall respond to words of praise, Or old thoughts of ‘other days.’ Since so fleeting is thy name, Talent, beauty, power, and wit, It were well that without shame Thou in God’s great book wert writ, There in golden words to be Graven for eternity.