The pen falls from his nerveless hand, <br />The light is fading from his eyes, <br />The brain that nobly served his land <br />Darkens and dies. <br />No, never dies! From hour to hour <br />The burning thought is living still; <br />Onward it speeds with gath’ring power <br />To strengthen and fulfil. <br />Build him no mockery of stone, <br />Nor shame him with your idle praise; <br />He liveth in his work alone <br />Through all our days. <br />Sleep, heart of gold, ’twas not in vain <br />You loved the struggling and the poor <br />And taught in sweet yet strenuous strain <br />To battle and endure. <br /> <br />The lust of wealth, the pride of place, <br />Were not a light to guide thy feet, <br />But larger hopes and wider space <br />For hearts to beat. <br />O, brother, dead! Thus, one by one, <br />Our broken swords remain to tell <br />The fight is o’er, the work is done, <br />Sleep! “It is well.”<br /><br />George Essex Evans<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/john-farrell/
