A POEM — JOHN F. LACEY 

 By Majoe S. H. M. Byers 



Born with the humble, with the humble bred, 

 Save what himself had gathered on the road ; 



An earnest life, and strenuous, he led, 



And reaped at last the harvest that he sowed. 



Not all, perhaps; there was another height 

 He yearned to reach, for he had wings to fly ; 



But, all at once, the daylight turned to night, 

 And voices told him it was time to die. 



One day a youth before a city stood, 



And asked for labor just to earn his bread ; 



' ' Come in, ' ' they said, but never dreamed they would 

 Some day bewail him as their noblest dead. 



'Twas not by accident, nor fate, nor chance 

 He found the goal so many failed to find; 



Work, work, was written on his shield and lance, 

 The eternal sharpener of the human mind. 



Not labor only, he had time to know 



The fields, the forests, and the birds at dawn ; 

 Each plumed creature in a requiem low 



Will say farewell to him who now is gone. 



He won the dearest that there is in life — 

 The high esteem of men who knew him best; 



E 'en they who met him in the fiercest strife, 

 Will shed a tear that he is gone to rest. 



Good-night, the sod can never wholly hide 

 Beloved names, nor memory banish quite; 



Across the river and across the tide 



We reach our hands and only say good-night. 



