George Lunt (1803–1885)

STANCH at thy post, to meet life’s common doom,

It scarce seems death, to die as thou hast died;

Thy duty done, thy truth, strength, courage, tried,

And all things ripe for the fulfilling tomb!

A crown would mock thy hearse’s sable gloom,

Whose virtues raised thee higher than a throne,

Whose faults were erring nature’s, not his own,—

Such be thy sentence, writ with fame’s bright plume,

Amongst the good and great; for thou wast great,

In thought, word, deed,—like mightiest ones of old,—

Full of the honest truth which makes men bold,

Wise, pure, firm, just;—the noblest Roman’s state

Became not more a ruler of the free,

Than thy plain life, high thoughts, and matchless constancy!