* * * *
On his carriage panel
Is a blazoned crest,
With a Latin motto
Given him—in jest.
His black coach and footman,
Dressed in livery,
Every day at Stewart's
Many crowd to see.
* * * *
Well—in upper-ten-dom
Let him rest in peace,
And may his investments
Cent, per cent, increase:
Though on earth for no one
Cares the millionaire,
So does NOT exactly
His devoted—heir!
* * * *
There's a useful moral
Woven with my rhyme,
Which may be considered
At—some other time:
Crockery is not porcelain—
It is merely delf—
And the kind most common
Is the man himself.
In Memory of Charles H. Sandford.
He died, as he had lived, beloved,
Without an enemy on earth;
In word and deed he breathed and moved
The soul of honor and of worth:
His hand was open as the day,
His bearing high, his nature brave;
And, when from life he passed away,
Our hearts went with him to the grave.
What desolation filled our home
When death from us our treasure bore!—
Oh! for the better world to come
Where we shall meet to part no more!
The hope of THAT sustains us now,
In THAT we trust on bended knee,
While thus around his faded brow
We twine the wreath of memory.
Seventy-Six.