Classic Poem

He served his master well from youth to age;
Who gave him then a little plot of land,
Enough a busy spirit to engage,
Too small to overtax an aged hand.
Old Stephen's memory hallows all the ground;
He made this thrifty lawn so spruce and small,
Dial and seat within its narrow bound,
And both half-hid with woodbine from the Hall.
But he is gone at last: how meek he lay
That night, and pray'd his dying hours away—
When the sun rose he ceased to breathe and feel:
Day broke—his eyes were on a lovelier dawn,
While ours beheld the sweet May morning steal
Across his dial and his orphan lawn.