The other found a narrow bed Within God's acre, peaceful, lone; The throng cared not that he was dead, A man uncultured and unknown.
But in the house that he had left A woman whispered through her tears: "Christ, comfort me, who am bereft Of love that failed not through the years."
And oft his stalwart sons and tall Would murmur as their eyes grew dim: "A useful life is best of all; God grant we pattern after him!"
A sick man sighed: "I'll miss his smile;" A shrivelled crone did shake her head And mutter to herself the while How oft his hand had given bread.
A maimed child sobbed: "He carried me To gather blossoms in the wood," And more than one said, brokenly: "A man who always did me good."
One came at twilight to the grave, And knelt and kissed the fresh-turned sod. "Oh, faithful soul," she cried, "and brave, 'Twas you that led me back to God!
"Back from the sin, the shame, the snare— Forget your trust and faith?—not I; Each helpful word, each tender prayer, I will remember till I die!"
Two men that sleep: above the one The monument an artist's hand Has fashioned from the block of stone, A thing of beauty, tall and grand;
Above the other naught—what then? Ere he did fold his hands for rest, He builded in the hearts of men The fairest monument and best.