He served his master well from youth to age; Who gave him then a little plot of land, Enough a busy spirit to engage, Too small to overtax an aged hand. Old Stephen's memory hallows all the ground; He made this thrifty lawn so spruce and small, Dial and seat within its narrow bound, And both half-hid with woodbine from the Hall. But he is gone at last: how meek he lay That nght, and pray'd his dying hours away -- When the sun rose he ceased to breathe and feel: Day broke -- his eyes were on a lovelier dawn, While ours beheld the sweet May morning steal Across his dial and his orphan lawn. |