Page:Fugitive Poetry 1600-1878.djvu/594

 

Till Christ my Redeemer, Who knows what is best; To ease me of my pain, Has taken me to my rest.  undefined  life is short, and 'tis Full of sorrow, We're here to-day and straight Are gone to-morrow.  undefined  lies the man, for aught we know, That lived and died without a foe, Now mouldering here, beneath that clod— "An honest man's the noblest work of God.  undefined  little spot is all our lot, And all that kings acquire; Our homes above, a gift of love— Oh, reader! there aspire.  undefined  lies a spotless child—profane our smile, For him—but for yourself let sorrow flow, For had he lived he might have been as vile, He might have been as profligate as you.  undefined  lies the body of poor Frank Rowe, Parish clerk and gravestone cutter; And this is writ to let you know, What Frank for others used to do Is now for Frank done by another. 