JAMES B. MAYNARD

His daily, nightly task is o'er —

He leans above his desk no more.

His pencil and his pen say not

One further word of gracious thought.

All silent is his voice, yet clear

For all a grateful world to hear;

He poured abroad his human love

In opulence unmeasured of —

While, in return, his meek demand,—

The warm clasp of a neighbor-hand

In recognition of the true

World's duty that he lived to do.

So was he kin of yours and mine —

So, even by the hallowed sign

Of silence which he listens to,

He hears our tears as falls the dew.