Lines In Memory Of The Late Ven. Archdeacon Elwood, A.M.

When men of gentle lives depart,
They leave behind no brilliant story
Of fam'd exploits, to make men start
In wonder at their dazzling glory.

The scholar's light, religion's beams,
Tho' fill'd with great, commanding pow'r,
In modest greatness throw their gleams,
In quiet rays, from hour to hour.

The greatest battles oft are fought,
Unseen by any earthly eye;
The victors all alone have wrought,
And, unapplauded, live or die.

'Twas thus with thee, thou rev'rend man;
In peaceful, holy work thy life
Was spent, until th' allotted span
Was cut by Time's relentless knife.

Far from the keen and heartless train,
Who daily feel Ambition's sting,
Thy life, remov'd, felt not the pain,
Which goads each one beneath her wing.

What pains thou felt, what joys thou knew,
Who shall presume to think or tell?
But this we know: there daily grew
Within thy heart, a living well.

That well of love increas'd each day,
The milk of human kindness flow'd,
And cheer'd the faint ones on their way,
Along a hard and toilsome road.

Thy voice rang out for years and years,
In fancy, yet, we hear its roll,
And see thy face, thro' blinding tears,
Fill'd with a love for ev'ry soul.

Thy words we shall not soon forget,
Thy deeds shall be remember'd, too,
And now, while ev'ry eye is wet,
Let us accord thee honor due.

Thou battl'd not 'gainst hosts of hell,
With words alone, convincing, warm;
Thy deeds were like the fatal shell,
That bursts amid the battle's storm.

The temple now, which stately stands
A lasting monument, shall tell
Of lib'ral hearts, and willing hands,
Urg'd on by thee to labor well.

O father, friend, well see no more!
Thy fight is done, and it was long;
But thou hast reach'd another shore,
And singeth now a blessed song.

The snows shall come upon the hills,
The valleys, too, with white be spread,
The birds shall whistle by the rills,
The flowers shall their fragrance shed.

The spring shall come to deck the earth,
In garb of vernal loveliness;
And sorrow shall abound, and mirth
Betimes shall cheer our deep distress.

The seasons shall perform their rounds,
And vegetation bloom and fade,
But thou wilt heed nor sights nor sounds,
For thou to rest for aye art laid.