Текст оригинала на английском языке
Mr. Samuel Tudor
Died at Hartford, January 29th, 1862, aged 92. We saw him on a winter's day, Beneath the hallowed dome, Where for so many years his heart Had found its Sabbath-home, Yet not amid his ancient seat Or in the accustomed place Arose his fair, and reverend brow, And form of manly grace. Then Music, through the organ's soul Melodious descant gave, But yet his voice so rich and sweet Swell'd not the sacred stave, The Christmas wreaths o'er arch and nave Were lingering still to cheer His parting visit to the fane Which he had help'd to rear. And flowers were on the coffin-lid And o'er his bosom strown, Fit offering for the friend who loved The plants of every zone, And bade them in his favor'd cell Unfold their charms sublime, And felt the florist's genial joy Repel the frost of time. No cloud of sorrow marr'd his course, Save when _her_ loss he wept, Whose image in his constant soul Its angel presence kept, But heavenly Mercy's balm was shed To cheer his lonely breast, For tenderest love in filial hearts His latest moments blest. And so, for more than ninety years Flow'd on his cloudless span, In love of Nature, and of Art, And kindred love for man, Our oldest patriarch, kind and true, To all our City dear, His cordial tones, his greeting words No more on earth we hear. Last of that band of noble men Who for their Church's weal Took counsel in her hour of need And wrought with tireless zeal, Nor in their fervent toil declined Nor loiter'd on their ways, Until her Gothic towers arose And her full chant of praise. But as we laid him down with tears, The westering Sun shone bright, And through the ice-clad evergreens Diffused prismatic light, Type of the glory that awaits The rising of the just, And so, we left him in the grave That Christ his Lord had blest.
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