Classic Poem

It stood,—a stately evergreen,
Above an honored grave,
As if an angel-guard serene,
From sacrilege to save.
The wild birds on its branches sang
Each dewy, summer morn;
And cheerfully their wood-notes rang
To welcome back the dawn.

Now hath a ruthless hand laid low
The tree of which we tell,
Whose friendly shade no more we know
O'er dust we loved so well.
Ah, well!—we miss the evergreen
When snow inwraps that clay;
But 'neath a fairer tree, I ween,
The spirit sits to-day,—

The spirit of our sainted friend,
Whose work was nobly done;
Whose dying words,—a fitting end!—
“For others live, my son!”
Still echo in our hearts, to make
Our lives more true and high;
And we shall meet him when we wake
Where none shall sin or die.