ON THE DEATH OF PROF. JOHN PITKIN NORTON. 



Called early! Gone, while yet his years were few : 



So counts the world upon her calendar ; 



But those there are who wear the snows of time 



Upon their furrowed temples, and yet die 



Younger than he, the great intent of life 



All unachieved. 



Yet hath he made his mark 

 On his own clime, and on the Mother Land 

 Beyond the flood, even in his youthful prime. 

 Yes, he hath made his mark. 



Yale's classic halls, 



In all their ancient pride, remember him ; 

 While, neath their dome, a thoughtful student band 

 Who duly listened to his treasured lore, 

 Lament their Teacher. 



Yes, it seems that earth 

 Herself remembereth him ; so well he knew 

 Her hidden elements and sequences, 

 And how to wake her full benevolence, 

 Making her children happier through her wealth, 

 Methinks even trees and plants remember him, 

 And pour, on heavy winds, a solemn wail ; 

 Their harp-like branches mingling with the sigh 

 Of sorrow from his desolated home. 

 Life spread in strong array her charms for him : 

 Young wife, and infant boy to lisp his name, 

 Father and mother, and the stricken hearts 

 Of truthful brothers, clinging round his own. 



