Classic Poem

Here sleeps, at last, in narrow bed,
A man of whom, whate'er is spoken,
This may with certainty be said
His promises were never broken.

He boasted no high-sounding name,
Or graced with academic letters;
He paid his way though, all the same,
And—more than once—forgave his debtors.

He never joined the cry of those
Who prate about the Public Morals;
But reconciled some private foes,
And patched up sundry standing quarrels.

It never came within his plan
To ‘demonstrate’ on Want or Labour;
He strove to serve his fellow-man,
And did his best to love his neighbour.

When Doubt disturbed his honest soul,
He found in this his consolation:—
We see a part, and not the whole,
With only scant illumination.

And this, at least, he felt was sure:—
To give the sick man's hurt a plaster,
To soothe the pain no art can cure,—
Was but the bidding of his Master.

So, all unpraised, he ran his race;
But we, who watched his life, and knew it,
Thus mark his nameless resting-place,
Because he died too poor to do it.