No laurel garland rests upon his tomb;
Yet in stern duty's path he met his doom;
A life heroic, though unwed to fame.
Though he pathetically mourns:
Never in childhood have I blithely sprung
To catch my father's voice, or climb his knee,
still
Love limned his wavering likeness on my soul,
Till through slow growths it waxed a perfect whole
Of clear conceptions, brightening heart and mind.