The Wonderful Country

And how did he live, that dead man there,In the country churchyard laid?O, he? He came for the sweet field air;He was tired of the town, and he took no prideIn its fashion or fame. He returned and diedIn the place he loved, where a child he playedWith those who have knelt by his grave and prayed.He ruled no serfs, and he knew no pride;He was one with the workers, side by side;He hated a mill, and a mine, and a town,With their fever of misery, struggle, renown;He could never believe but a man was madeFor a nobler end than the glory of trade.For the youth he mourned with an endless pityWho were cast like snow on the streets of the city.He was weak, maybe; but he lost no friend;Who loved him once, loved on to the end.He mourned all selfish and shrewd endeavor;But he never injured a weak one—never.When censure was passed, he was kindly dumb;He was never so wise but a fault would come;He was never so old that he failed to enjoyThe games and the dreams he had loved when a boy.He erred and was sorry; but never drewA trusting heart from the pure and true.When friends look back from the years to be,God grant they may say such things of me.