Keep fresh the grass upon his grave,
O Rotha, with thy living wave!
Sing him thy best! for few or none
Hear thy voice right, now he is gone.
STANZAS.
In Memory of Edward Quillinan.
I saw him sensitive in frame,
I knew his spirits low;
And wished him health, success, and fame—
I do not wish it now.
For these are all their own reward,
And leave no good behind;
They try us, oftenest make us hard,
Less modest, pure, and kind.
Alas! yet to the suffering man,
In this his mortal state,
Friends could not give what fortune can,—
Health, ease, a heart elate.
But he is now by fortune foiled
No more; and we retain
The memory of a man unspoiled,
Sweet, generous, and humane;
With all the fortunate have not,
With gentle voice and brow.
—Alive, we would have changed his lot:
We would not change it now.
