Descendant of a noble race!
What hand may not thy lineage trace?
Each footstep marks a noble deed,
And, justly, honor is thy meed.
No shrinking fear of boistrous wave
Deterred, when there was ought to save.
No Alpine storm, nor tempest wild,
Nor threatening avalanche high-piled,
But thy great heart could firmly brave
The lost and perishing to save.
On mercy's errand ever bent,
Mildness and might in thee were blent.
As well thou guard'st the babe from harm
As rescue from the 'whelming storm.
But thou, whose memory I trace,
Wert but an infant of thy race,
And ne’er hadst plunged beneath the wave
To rescue darlings from the grave;
Nor, midnight, ranged the mountain cliff,
Nor, burrowed deep in wild snow drift;
Nor, faithful, watched the livelong day
To guard the gentle child at play;
For scarce one moon thy little life;
Yet still thine eye, with being rife,
Oft told within those kindling fires
W'ould’st honor well thy noble sires!
Then on thee be these honors thrown.
For they are justly all thy own.
And now we gently pat thy head,
And sorrow much that thou art dead.
We praise thy form and ebon hair,
And wonder if thy virtues share
The same relentless hand of fate,
That bids thee never, never wake.
And now we lay thee 'neath the turf;
But who can tell the half thy worth?