To the scenes that hurried by;
From the busy play of infancy
To the busier care of age—
And nothing so fair as an upright soul
Was traced on the glowing page.
“Whatever he doeth shall prosper well”—
“In his darkness ariseth light”—
So—softly and sweetly a whisper fell,
Like the smile of an angel bright.
Though he win not the glitter of gold or fame,