Boys’ hot blood cooled, boys’ impatience subsiding,
Reverently think of “the Master” to-day.
‘Counting his courage, his manhood, his knowledge,
Counting the glory he won for us all,
Cambridge—not only his dearly loved College—
Mourns his seat empty in chapel and hall.
‘Lay him down here—in the dim ante-chapel,
Where Newton’s statue looms ghostly and white,
Broad brow set rigid in thought-mast’ring grapple,
Eyes that look upward for light—and more light.