In memory of John B. Finch who dropped dead at the Boston depot after having lectured at Lynn.
How swift was your going, my brother;
Were all the tasks ended so soon,
Before the bright dew of the morning
Was dried by the splendors of noon?
Did you gather the harvest of living
From fields yet aglow with your June?
How swift was your going, my brother,
Away from our uttermost reach;
No tender farewell in the silence
From all the rare wealth of your speech;
No word from the lips that so calmly
Smile on, while we vainly beseech.
How swift was your going, my brother;
Can it be you were weary indeed?
Your voice was so ringing and steady,
Your spirit but stronger in need;
Were you hiding the hurt of the battle,
With no one to comfort or heed?
How strange was your going, my brother;
What voice did you hear from afar
So urgent you paused in the conflict,
And vanished from sight like a star?
Who sailed with your soul at its going
Out over eternity's bar?
Are we late with our praises, my brother?
You needed them more when the strain
Of the battle was pressing upon you.
Ah me! with what royal disdain
Death crowns you apart in a kingdom
Untouched by our praising or blame.
You make us no answer, my brother,
Your silence rebukes our lament
And sends us afield, where the contest
For truth and the human are blent.
Ah! God was anear in that shadow,
You found him the pathway you went;
No wonder you make us no answer
Since crowned with eternal content.
