William Forster

The years are many since his hand Was laid upon my head, Too weak and young to understand The serious words he said.

Yet often now the good man's look Before me seems to swim, As if some inward feeling took The outward guise of him.

As if, in passion's heated war, Or near temptation's charm, Through him the low-voiced monitor Forewarned me of the harm.

Stranger and pilgrim! from that day Of meeting, first and last, Wherever Duty's pathway lay, His reverent steps have passed.

The poor to feed, the lost to seek, To proffer life to death, Hope to the erring,--to the weak The strength of his own faith.

To plead the captive's right; remove The sting of hate from Law; And soften in the fire of love The hardened steel of War.

He walked the dark world, in the mild, Still guidance of the Light; In tearful tenderness a child, A strong man in the right.

From what great perils, on his way, He found, in prayer, release; Through what abysmal shadows lay His pathway unto peace,

God knoweth : we could only see The tranquil strength he gained; The bondage lost in liberty, The fear in love unfeigned.

And I,--my youthful fancies grown The habit of the man, Whose field of life by angels sown The wilding vines o'erran,--

Low bowed in silent gratitude, My manhood's heart enjoys That reverence for the pure and good Which blessed the dreaming boy's.

Still shines the light of holy lives Like star-beams over doubt; Each sainted memory, Christlike, drives Some dark possession out.

O friend! O brother I not in vain Thy life so calm and true, The silver dropping of the rain, The fall of summer dew!

How many burdened hearts have prayed Their lives like thine might be But more shall pray henceforth for aid To lay them down like thee.

With weary hand, yet steadfast will, In old age as in youth, Thy Master found thee sowing still The good seed of His truth.

As on thy task-field closed the day In golden-skied decline, His angel met thee on the way, And lent his arm to thine.

Thy latest care for man,--thy last Of earthly thought a prayer,-- Oh, who thy mantle, backward cast, Is worthy now to wear?

Methinks the mound which marks thy bed Might bless our land and save, As rose, of old, to life the dead Who touched the prophet's grave!