To-day we make the poet's words our own,

And utter them in plaintive undertone;

Nor to the living only be they said,

But to the other living called the dead,

Whose dear, paternal images appear

Not wrapped in gloom, but robed in sunshine here;

Whose simple lives, complete and without flaw,

Were part and parcel of great Nature's law;

Who said not to their Lord, as if afraid,

"Here is thy talent in a napkin laid,"

But labored in their sphere, as men who live

In the delight that work alone can give.

Peace be to them; eternal peace and rest,

And the fulfilment of the great behest:

"Ye have been faithful over a few things,

Over ten cities shall ye reign as kings."