On the Death of W. C
Thou arrant robber, Death!Couldst thou not findSome lesser one than heTo rob of breath,—Some poorer mindThy prey to be?
His mind was like the sky,—As pure and free;His heart was broad and openAs the sea.His soul shone purely through his face,And Love made him her dwelling place.
Not less the scholar than the friend,Not less a friend than man;The manly life did shorter endBecause so broad it ran.
Weep not for him, unhappy Muse!His merits found a grander useSome other-where. God wisely seesThe place that needs his qualities.Weep not for him, for when Death lowersO’er youth’s ambrosia-scented bowersHe only plucks the choicest flowers.