I.

Casts were they of the features fine
Of wise and good and honour'd men;
But soon the damps effaced each line,
And they were lumps of clay again.
So did the living forms decay,
And turn into their native clay;
But why so much the Casts deplore,
If God will their lost moulds restore?

II.

Will He? You preach it, and believe,
And let my faith your creed sustain,
That the dear friends for whom we grieve
Still link'd with us by love remain:
The looks, the smiles, the tones we miss,
The hallow'd sweetness of the kiss,
The warmth of hand and heart I never
Can believe lost, and lost for ever.

III.

And thinking of their pains and cares,
So bravely met, so meekly borne,
Their tears and sighs, and secret prayers,
Their tenderness, did others mourn;
Their patient toil, their earnest thought,
Their wisdom by hard lessons bought,
Their lofty hopes, their filial trust
In God — I feel they are not dust.