Classic Poem

No thrush at eve had ever sweeter song
Than thine whose voice no more on earth we hear;
Nor winds and flowing streams more please the ear,
Nor to the speech of Nature more belong.
And yet thy heart beat ever with the throng
Of toil; the lowliest life thou didst revere
And the wide law of brotherhood hold dear,
Most mindful still of all who suffered wrong.

Best loved of all the choir we loved so well,
'T was thine to bring again the Master near,
And hymn to men the Goodness without end:
Psalmist we call thee of our Israel,
Child of the Spirit, poet, prophet, seer, —
And to us all, of every name, the Friend!