The deep beseeching of a stricken breast,
Survived the vainly-gifted. In the souls
Of the kind few that loved him, with a love
Faithful to even its disappointed hope,
That song of tears found root, and by their hearths
Full oft, in low and reverential tones,
Fill’d with the piety of tenderness,
Is murmur’d to their children, when his name
On some faint harp-string of remembrance falls,
Far from the world’s rude voices, far away.