Frederic David Mocatta

OF what avail in low estate to weep,

To take our harps from off the willow trees?

Will harp or tablet wake him from his sleep?

Our tears run down—of what avail are these?

For him, the scholar’s hope, the poor man’s need,

Who knew the art to benefit unknown,

Who cast at eve and morn the holy seed

On rugged valleys neither eared nor sown.

Though many a tongue a ready writer’s pen,

Of many kindnesses might tell the tale,

Of what avail these words of many men

Or dirge, or episode—of what avail?

Be strong and of good courage! freed from ill,

Fast in life’s bundle thy sweet soul is tied,

Sleep! loosed from this low world by God’s own will,

And wake! with God’s own likeness, satisfied!