Poem by Edmund Clarence Stedman

J. G. H.

           Multis ille bonis flebilis occidit.

                               Hor., Carm. 1, 24.

Who knew him, loved him. His the longing heart
For what his youth had missed, his manhood known,—
The haunts of Song, the fellowship of Art,—
And all their kin he strove to make his own.

But his the good, true heart not thus content:
The words that fireside groups at eve repeat
He spoke, or sang; and far his sayings went,
And simple households found his music sweet.

So Heaven was kind and gave him naught to grieve.
Among his loved he woke at morn from rest,—
One smile—one pang—and gained betimes his leave,
Ere Strength had lost its use, or Life its zest. 

1. Country Sleighing
2. Round the Old Board
3. The Heart of New England
4. Gifford
5. Pan in Wall Street

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