Where thickest on that eastward hill the grassy mounds are piled,
We laid him till the glorious morn beside his waiting child:
Above, that home of England's faith; around, the silent dead;
Beneath, the city in her pomp of ancient towers out--spread.

Some might have blamed the swelling tear, and chid the faltering voice,
When earth below would have us mourn, but Heaven above rejoice:
But down beneath its busy thoughts the Christian heart can weep,
Where meet the springs of joy and woe, ten thousand fathoms deep.

He walked the furnace tied and bound with suffering's galling band,
But One there was, the Son of God, who held him by the hand;
No smell of fire is on him now, no link of all his chains,
The wreck we mourned is passed away; the friend we loved remains.

Let Worcester tell his deeds of love,--let Canterbury tell,--
Each sacred roof his labour raised, each flock he watched so well;
The councils that no more shall hear his zealous words and wise,
The souls that miss him on their path of holy enter--prise.

We stood, his brothers, o'er him, in the sacred garb he wore;
We thought of all we owed him, and of all we hoped for more;
Our Zion's desolation on every heart fell chill,
As we left him, slowly winding down that ancient eastward hill.

And what if in the distance then some lightsome sounds were heard,
That seemed to mar the solemn thought and mock the sacred word?
In air that savoured yet of death 'twas life sprung up anew:
There yet is youth, there still is hope, there yet are deeds to do.

To our places in the vineyard of our God return we now,
With kindled eye, with onward step, with hand upon the plough:
Our hearts are safer anchored; our hopes have richer store;
One treasure more in Heaven is ours; one bright example more.