To R.W.E

 As when a father dies, his children draw 
About the empty hearth, their loss to cheat 
With uttered praise & love, & oft repeat 
His all-familiar words with whispered awe.
The honored habit of his daily law, Not for his sake, but theirs whose feeble feet Need still that guiding lamp, whose faith, less sweet, Misses that tempered patience without flaw, So do we gather round thy vacant chair, In thine own elm-roofed, amber-rivered town, Master & Father! For the love we bear, Not for thy fame's sake, do we weave this crown, And feel thy presence in the sacred air, Forbidding us to weep that thou art gone.

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