Oh! loved and reverenced long that name

shall be,

Though, crumbled on the soil of Brittany,

No stone, at last, of that pale Ruin shows Where stood the gateway of his joys and woes. For, in the Breton town, the good deeds done Yield a fresh harvest still, from sire to son: Still thrives the noble Hospital that gave

Shelter to those whom none from pain could

save;

Still to the schools the ancient chiming clock

Calls the poor yeanlings of a simple flock:
Still the calm Refuge for the fallen and lost
(Whom love a blight and not a blessing crost,)
Sends out a voice to woo the grieving breast,-
Come unto me, ye weary, and find rest!
And still the gentle nurses,-vowed to give
Their aid to all who suffer and yet live,—

Go forth in snow-white

cap

and sable gown,

Tending the sick and hungry in the town,

And show dim pictures on their quiet walls

Of those who dwelt in Garaye's ruined halls!

For all the loving help and calm content.

Oh! happy beings, who have gone to hear

"Well done, ye faithful servants," sounding

clear;

How easy all your virtues to admire ;

How hard, alas! to copy and aspire.

Servant of God, well done! They serve God

well

Who serve His creatures: when the funeral bell

Tolls for the dead, there's nothing left of all
That decks the scutcheon and the velvet pall
Save this. The coronet is empty show:

The strength and loveliness are hid below :

The shifting wealth to others hath accrued:

And learning cheers not the grave's solitude :

What's DONE, is what remains! Ah, blessed

they

Who leave completed tasks of love to stay

And answer mutely for them, being dead,

Life was not purposeless, though Life be fled.