From the chair the children gave him, where he sat as on a throne,
While they clustered round him fondly, claiming him as all their own,
He has gone, the poet stately, aureoled with snowy hair;
If we looked, we could not find him in this wide world anywhere.
If we called, he would not answer--he, so swift to smile and bless
Every little child who sought him with a gracious tenderness;
Though we wept, he would not hear us; he has gone too far away,
And the children's chair in Cambridge is a vacant throne to-day.
But we'll hie to fair Mount Auburn, hand in hand with April days,
There to wreathe the children's garland, 'mid the green immortal bays;
Shy arbutus, valley-lilies, violets breaking into bloom,
Sparkling with the children's tear-drops, shall adorn the poet's tomb.
There he slumbers, oh, so deeply! all his earthly labors done,
Never more a care to vex him 'neath the ever-circling sun;
Of all sweet things said about him, this shall farthest fragrance send,
That the poet, sage, and scholar was the children's loving friend.
Like his Master, he would suffer tiny hands to pluck his gown;
Fearlessly the small feet thronged him, unrebuked by word or frown;
Surely he was met in heaven by a white-robed shining band,
Since before Our Father alway do the children's angels stand.