Among the many lives that I have known,
  None I remember more serene and sweet,
  More rounded in itself and more complete,
  Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.
These pines, that murmur in low monotone,
  These walks frequented by scholastic feet,
  Were all his world; but in this calm retreat
  For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.
With fond affection memory loves to dwell
  On the old days, when his example made
  A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen;
And now, amid the groves he loved so well
  That naught could lure him from their grateful shade,
  He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen!
  None I remember more serene and sweet,
  More rounded in itself and more complete,
  Than his, who lies beneath this funeral stone.
These pines, that murmur in low monotone,
  These walks frequented by scholastic feet,
  Were all his world; but in this calm retreat
  For him the Teacher's chair became a throne.
With fond affection memory loves to dwell
  On the old days, when his example made
  A pastime of the toil of tongue and pen;
And now, amid the groves he loved so well
  That naught could lure him from their grateful shade,
  He sleeps, but wakes elsewhere, for God hath said, Amen!
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