born 1850, of a family of engineers,
died ...
"Nitor aquis."
Home is the sailor, home from sea,
And the hunter home from the hill.
You, who pass this grave, put aside hatred; love kindness; be all
services remembered in your heart and all offences pardoned; and as you
go down again among the living, let this be your question: can I make
some one happier this day before I lie down to sleep? Thus the dead man
speaks to you from the dust: you will hear no more from him.
Who knows, Colvin, but I may thus be of more use when I am buried than
ever when I was alive? The more I think of it, the more earnestly do I
desire this. I may perhaps try to write it better some day; but that is
what I want in sense. The verses are from a beayootiful poem by me.