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.
{101}
[Illustration: The ancient printerman--headpiece]